


You're my best friend (and more)

by Bookish_penguin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (as raphael), Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Azi as an owl!!, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Other, Reverse Omens, and blood, ineffable husbands through the times, like same same as canon but different??, reverse au, slow burn?? No only fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_penguin/pseuds/Bookish_penguin
Summary: Archangel Raphael was told not to ask so many questions. Sent away from heaven to take a little time off and clear his head, he meets and makes a strange friend on earth, the owl demon Azira whom he greatly suspected did not know how to be a proper demon. Not that Raphael knew how to be a proper angel, either. Well, it's time for a name change and a fresh new start on earth.Or alternatively: it's Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages but with their roles swapped.





	1. In the beginning

There was an angel standing atop of the eastern gate, clad in white robes mirroring the sheen of the stars above. A quiet, contemplative look resided on his face. He studied those distant nebulas the way an artist would study their work, full of nagging ideas and the itch to change _something_. But as to what that might be, the angel had no clue. 

Behind him came the rustle of feathers. He turned slightly, crimson hair billowing in the night wind. His eyes followed the elegant swoop of a large owl, out from the trees, across the air, and finally down upon the bricks. The owl shook its feathers. They were a rich blend of whites and greys, studded at the tips with a tinge of gold. Cool blue eyes like the arctic’s sea peered up at him. 

The angel turned fully to face him. In that instant, the owl’s form flickered, vanishing promptly to be replaced by the image of a man. Only those blue eyes remained. They shone just as bright as the angel’s stars. Mesmerising. 

“Archangel Raphael,” the demon greeted. He pointed up at the night sky, letting his fingers skim gently over its constellations. “Do you take constructive criticism?” 

“‘Course. I’ve been thinking about it myself. You reckon that one there on the right has its colour just a teensy bit off?” 

“Not at all. They’re beautiful.” 

Raphael lifted a brow. “That’s not criticism.” 

“Hush, not so loud!” he shot frantic looks everywhere. Then as if just remembering they were the only two celestial (well, celestial and ex-celestial) beings around, he relaxed and looked apologetic. “Sorry. As you know, demons can’t say nice things. But I do mean it. Oh—splendid work on Alpha Centauri, by the way! One of my favourites.” 

“Mine too.” He’d put a lot of heart into that one. 

“Didn’t think I’d run into you here.” The demon smiled shyly at him. “Hard to imagine the creator of the stars would be so far away from them.” 

Raphael shuffled nervously. “Well. You’ll be running into me a lot more from now on.” 

The demon blinked at him. 

He sighed, gesturing vaguely. “Bah, you know. I may have irritated Gabriel by asking too many questions. But, he’s more annoying for not answering them, see? Anyway, he kicked me out. Told me to spend some time here, clear my head. So here I am. Not that I mind. Can you believe all the people upstairs?” He shuddered. “So stuffy.” 

The demon nodded, full of understanding. “Oh, you’ve had it rough, dear boy. I can definitely relate. If it makes you feel better, Earth’s a great place for a getaway.” He leaned in for an impish whisper. “The food is _amazing_, for one. Did you try the fruit on that Tree?” 

“What? ‘Course not! It’s—you know—out of bounds and all?” He distantly wondered if he should be mapping this out for a demon. Does he really care? 

“Eve did it,” he shrugged. “They can only blame the one who did it first.” 

He produced an apple from the sleeves of his navy robes and bit noisily into it. Noticing his stare, the demon smirked and winked at him. 

Raphael felt a little light headed. “Was that your doing?” 

“It might have been planned. But what I didn’t _expect_ to see was the humans using your staff to hike out of here.” The look he gave him was full of childish delight. “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do?” 

“Oh, doesn’t matter.” Raphael made a face. “The terrain is harsh. I’m not going to watch them trip into every pit out there. Think about the child.” 

The demon laughed, his snowy curls lifting slightly. 

“But correct me if I’m wrong...was that the flaming sword I saw in Adam’s hand out there?” he added deviously. 

He choked on his apple. “Th—that was _not_ my doing. I have no idea what you are talking about,” he huffed loudly. 

A demon, yet a terrible liar. Raphael thought that was a bit counterproductive. Then suddenly, it hit him. 

“You’re Aziraphale. Angel of the flaming sword,” he marvelled. He’d only seen him around in heaven once or twice, but that was enough to make a lasting impression. Aziraphale was the very definition of starlight, bright and lovely as the sun. Even from afar Raphael could feel the warmth of his being. How he had longed to gravitate closer, to be held in the centre of those gentle blue eyes. But as an archangel, he could only do what he always did, which was sit and watch from far away. 

But Aziraphale was here now, just inches away. Raphael couldn’t help but lean closer in wonder, as if reaching out to a falling star. 

Aziraphale—no, that wasn’t his name anymore—flinched and drew away. Guilt struck him instantly. Raphael withdrew his hands, folding them tight against his chest and inwardly cursed his stupidity. 

“The flaming sword isn’t mine to keep any longer,” he said lightly. “So I thought, why not give it away? I do very much agree with you. It’s a harsh world out there after all, outside the Garden. And she’s expecting already!” 

There was a pause. Raphael cupped his mouth, then miserably failed to stifle a snort. “Not very demon-like, are you?” 

“Oh, quiet.” He rolled his eyes. “As if you’re something of an angelic paragon yourself.” 

Raphael snorted harder. When their voices dwindled and the wind stilled, he’d only begun to realise just how quiet it was. Nothing like heaven and its crowded halls and endless celestial harmonies. It was nice here, but also unbelievably lonely. 

“A getaway’s pretty dull without some company,” he remarked offhandedly, and stole a sideways glance at his companion. 

He arched a perfect snowy brow. “A demon’s company?” 

Raphael offered a hand, brimming underneath with the divine power of weaving stars themselves into existence. The demon stared at it. Not in fear, but in awe, in reverence. 

“Call me Azira.” He gave their joint hands a firm shake. 

“We’ll get along just fine, Zira.” Raphael didn’t want to let go. 

“Really, dear.” Azira gave him a withering look. “As if my name hasn’t already been shortened enough.” 


	2. Mesopotamia, 3004 BC

Azira could spot that head of flaming red hair anywhere. Also, the cream robes were a dead giveaway. He elegantly weaved through the crowd of anxious, gossiping locals and delightedly tiptoed to press his hands over the angel’s eyes. 

“...Zira, what are you doing?” 

“A prank!” Azira explained, rather pleased with himself. “It’s what demons do. Play pranks on unfortunate souls?” 

“Right.” Raphael nodded, unimpressed. “Needs a bit of work.” 

There was a sourness in his expression that Azira was surprised to see. Sure, Raphael wasn’t your average typical ball of angelic sunshine, but it was more pronounced today than ever. Perhaps it had something to do with that great ark in the distance, currently leaning sideways in the sand and being filled up with a bunch of loud animals. 

“What’s happening over there?” Azira suddenly noticed the unease all about him, and the dampness in the air. There was going to be a storm. Quite a big one in fact, judging from the ominous colour of the clouds above. 

“Something ridiculous,” Raphael snapped. “The almighty’s going to wipe out the locals.” 

“Oh. Um. All of them?” 

“All of them. Well. Not Noah and his family. They’re going to be fine.” 

The angel’s barely concealed infuriation was like a sun about to explode. It made Azira a little panicky as he searched for something to say. 

“But there’s nothing you can do about it, is there? You know what they say, god’s plan is—”

“—ineffable.” Raphael sighed through his nose. “I know that better than anyone. But you can’t kill kids. No, no, not kids.” He was genuinely upset. 

Azira stared sideways at his companion. If he looked very closely, he could even see the sheen of tears glimmering in those celestial gold eyes. Oh dear. He scratched his head, looking about hopelessly as if there might be something in the landscape that could help. 

A ruckus had ensued somewhere to the left. It seems a unicorn was making the run for it. Azira brightened. That might just do nicely. 

“Come on.” He caught the angel’s wrist. “I too, have a plan.” 

“What—”

“Oh, just follow me dear.” 

With the crowd well behind them, they could surreptitiously unfurl their wings and take off into the sky. Azira saw that Raphael was staring at his wings. Not an everyday sight perhaps, for a demon to have wings that weren’t entirely black. It was a bit embarrassing really. His were perfectly white at the top, later then smoothly cascading from grey to navy and finally to ebony at his primaries. 

The unicorn could run, but try as it might it could not outrun an archangel and a demon. Azira took the lead as he swooped downwards and banked at the last minute to land firmly on the unicorn’s back. He then grabbed hold of its mane as a sort of rein and steered it back in the direction of the ark. 

Raphael glided above them, the most bewildered expression on his face. His wings were white, speckled with gold like flecks of stars. They glowed when shadowed from the light of the sun. 

“Zira, is this another one of your demonic pranks? Like I said before, it still needs a bit of work.” 

Azira ignored him. Many people ducked out of the way from the charging unicorn and cursed, but he didn’t stop to apologise to any of them. He only pulled the great beast to a halting check when he found what he was looking for—a group of children. 

They back-pedalled clumsily as the unicorn reared and whinnied. They didn’t know what to be more in awe of—the iridescent horn on the white mare’s head, or the large wings of the man sitting atop its back. Azira swung himself down and beamed at the children. 

“Who wants to ride a unicorn?” 

The response was immediate. 

“Me!” 

“Me me me!” 

“I said it first—”

“Go away!” 

“Now now, everyone will get their chance. _But_,” he paused for effect. The children went very silent. Excellent. They’ll do whatever he told them to now. Human offspring were so impressionable. He could see why Raphael liked them so much. “Only those who go on the ark right _now_ will get to ride her.” 

“But mama said we aren’t supposed to go near the ark!” a boy complained. 

“Don’t listen to her.” Azira winked, just a glint of his demonic mischief revealing itself in his eyes. “Listen to me.” 

“Okay!” The boy chirped. 

Azira nodded and folded his arms proudly. The children were all making an immediate beeline up the ramp of the ark now, disappearing fast into its lower deck. It was safe to say that once on the boat, they’ll all live to see the sunrise of another day. After the rain. He even heard that there was going to be something new—a rainbow. Now wouldn’t that be something the children will like? 

The flutter of wings sounded behind him. Azira turned excitedly, trying and failing not to gloat. “How’s _that_ for a demonic prank? I imagine someone upstairs will be very upset about it. One of my most finest work, if I may say so myself.” 

Raphael didn’t respond immediately. He still had that look on his face, like someone who’d just woken up from a dream and was struggling to regain their bearings. Azira would even say he looked spellbound. 

“It was...it was something else,” the angel finally said. He averted his eyes and twirled just one lock of his fiery hair absently. “Thank you. What you did was um, very nice.” 

Azira wanted to throw a fit at the forbidden four letter word (as advised by hell), but he felt a strange heat come over his cheeks. What was this feeling, he wondered? It was a familiar but distant memory. Perhaps even something as distant as before the Fall. 

“I wouldn’t have done it myself,” he huffed. “I only did it because—well—you were upset!” 

“Was _not_.” Raphael quickly wiped his eyes. 

“Oh stop it you. Angels can’t lie.” 

“Shut up.” 

Thunder roared from above. The rain was picking up now, from gentle at first to absolutely hammering just a few minutes later. Water began to rise to their ankles. There on the ark, the children had rushed up on the deck, making a clamour about how ‘the boat is starting to move, cool!’. Noah and his family looked confused at the new additions, but didn’t seem to mind too much. 

“Zira...?” 

“Yes, my dear?” 

“Thank you.” 

Azira lifted a wing to shield his companion from the rain. “You’re very welcome.” 


	3. Rome

Azira received the impression that he was being followed for a while now. It was something he was used to—humans sometimes found his aura captivating, and was drawn to him unconsciously like moths to a flame. It was merely in their nature to be attracted to trouble. Ever the chaotic ones, humans were, having the knack to spark petty wars over the smallest things. 

Today however, he was not being followed by humans. No, nothing harmless of that sort. It became immediately apparent when he was shoved up against a wall once he made a turn into a deserted alley. Azira felt the curls on his head rising—much like the feathers of birds when they were incensed. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his navy robes with a huff. 

“You pathetic excuse of a demon,” a man spat into his face. Correction: a man-shaped being. Those ruby eyes were simply not of this world, just like him. 

With the coolness of an owl, Azira did not blink. “Afternoon, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Another blow stuck him across the cheek. His legs tangled on each other and he was sent scrambling for purchase on the cobblestone ground. He caught nothing but dust. The demons laughed. Azira shut his eyes and nursed the throbbing side of his face. He held very still. 

“Ye really think ye can keep playing all prim an’ proper, don’t you?” someone caught a fistful of his collar and hurled him up. “Well go on then—kiss my feet while ye at it!” 

“I refuse,” Azira said flatly. 

“Useless load of crap.”

His knees struck the ground again. He had tried hard not to be frightened by their scalding words and heinous grins, but it was impossible while being surrounded like this. Backing away only made him hit a dusty wall. Azira shrunk in on himself as the demons pressed closer and leered over him. 

“Ye a demon, dimwit.” Those words burned his ears. Seared deep into his mind. “Act like one.” 

Another blow into his side had him curling into a tight ball, biting his lips till they bled, refusing to make a sound. Then Azira did the one thing he warned himself not to do—pray. The consequences struck him a thousandfold. Blood filled his mouth instantly, and even as he keeled over and begged for forgiveness, the blinding pain did not stop. Could not stop. It was divine punishment, afflicted on a demon like him to very well remind him of his place. Cursed. Banished. Forsaken. Forbidden. That’s who he was. 

The demons before him all lunged away with disgust on their disfigured faces, repulsed by what they saw. 

“You idiot!” One scorned. “Do you really think, that after all of that, mummy dearest will still heed your little cries?” 

Azira clutched his throat, coughing and retching, but all that came up was dark and darker blood. 

A demon knelt down some distance away. He appeared fascinated. “Why do you think we Fell? Tell me, really. I want to know what’s going on in that screwed up head of yours.” 

Tears pooled in the corners of his vision. His nails were scraping into the cracks in the ground, tearing up flesh and skin. 

“That’s right,” the demon continued, ignoring his wheezy silence. “It’s cause we’re defected. Evil. Bad. All things heaven and the rest of them angels hate. So why do you bother, Azira? Is pretendin’ to be good just a game to you? It’s a stupid one, I’ll tell you that. ” 

His chest heaved with difficulty to draw in breath, and against everything, his lips still moved to shape the words. “I Fell because I refused to fight in the war. Don’t think for a second that I’m one of you, fiend.” 

The demon’s face contorted. His sharp-as-claws nails scraped down the curve of Azira’s jaw. He mused in a low, rolling purr, “Tell me. What colour are your wings, Azira?” 

Freezing water felt to have been dumped down his back. The nefarious smirk remained on the demon’s face as he slowly reached behind Azira, to lurk his hand near where his primaries would be. 

“No,” he shook and pleaded. “Don’t—”

With a sharp tug, a feather was ripped out of place. Azira clamped his hands over his mouth to fight back a whimper. The shaft of his feather was pinched between the demon’s fingers, and the latter gazed at it thoughtfully. 

“Black,” he scoffed, pushing himself to his feet. “Just like I thought.” 

Azira watched him throw away the feather as if it were only a piece of trash. 

“You may think you’re not like us, Azira.” 

The ground underneath the demons’ feet caught aflame, and one by one they sunk into the scorched earth. Dirt flooded into their shoes. Blackened their skin. Filled the space in their robes, tangled in their hair. The last things to disappear fully underground were the taunt in their eyes and the mirth in their cutting grins; ghosts that even the earth could not erase away fully. 

“...but you are one of us. Don’t be mistaken now.” 

The silence that descended after the storm was heavier than the lash of the storm itself. Azira leaned against the wall with his head lifted, his lips parted. He could not see the sky from where he laid. There was only darkness and dust. Cobwebs and grime, clinging to the undersides of the roman huts. Death hung still in the air. If he looked closely, there was a misshapen shape in the darkness to his left that was crowded with buzzing flies. A rat scuttled past his sandals. Emaciated, its ribs could be seen poking out of its chest.

It was moments like these when Azira knew he was properly damned. Not even the light would reach him here, but perhaps that is what he deserved. 

After all, wasn’t that exactly what everyone wanted him to believe? 

—

Petronius’ restaurant was simply bustling at this time of the day. All that clamour and activity and noise was doing a number on his throbbing head, and by some miracle—oh no, he was not going to slip up again—correction, demonic blessing, he made it to a vacant seat. A human was good enough to come take his order. 

“Wha’ever’s drinkable, m’ dear,” Azira said apologetically. He enunciated as well as he could with half of his face busted up. 

“Zira!” a familiar voice called. 

Oh no. Of all times, he had to show up now. Azira closed his eyes in pain. He gathered all the strength he had summoned in three measly seconds, then turned around with a bright smile. 

“Archangel Raphael! Ah.” He caught himself. “Crowley,” he amended. 

The angel’s face shifted from playful to miffed to pleased. He had oddly requested for a change of name in Golgotha (something Azira didn’t understand because the fellow has got a lovely name really). But he relented, because he could never see himself ever saying no to this particular archangel. It was a bit infuriating really. 

“Fancy running into you here. You’re looking to be in better spirits, at least, since the last time we’ve met.” The bar lady delivered a cool jug of something to his table. In relief, he pressed its freezing surface to the bruised side of his face. It worked wonders. “How is your friend, by the way? I understand he was rather...upset by the crucification.” 

“Oh, Gabe’s fine.” Crowley waved a hand, slumping into the seat opposite his. There was a crown of silver leaves nested on his fiery hair, as well as black shades on his nose to hide the startling gold of his celestial eyes. His robes, unsurprisingly, were white and pristine. Shame about the way he was sitting, though. Definitely not so pristine. “Tough to lose a best friend, but one has to move on.” 

“One has to move on,” Azira echoed, wondering if he should learn a thing or two from those words. 

“So. Still a demon, then?” 

The thoughtlessness of those words stung more than the massive internal bleeding in his cheek. “It does tend to be a rather permanent state.” 

“I know.” Crowley’s lips twitched. He seemed to be holding back a laugh. “I was kidding. Been in Rome long?” 

“Nicked in for a quick temptation,” Azira said smoothly. If there was one demonic—or at least, vaguely bad thing he was good at, it was lying. “You?” 

“Thought I’ll try Patronus’ new restaurant.” Crowley pushed a plate of shell-y and moist looking things towards him. “Heard he does wonders to oysters.” 

Azira regarded the spread before him with as much interest as he could muster in the moment, which was to say, none. “Huh. Never tried an oyster.” 

“I would tempt you to—” Azira’s head snapped up at the incriminating word. Crowley was utterly unperturbed. “—but frankly, oysters are disgusting. Do not attempt to try them. Ever.” 

A laugh was heaving its way out of his beaten chest before he could help it. “Really, my dear? Are you even hearing yourself right now?” 

Crowley’s eyes could not be seen. The perfect arch of his brows however, were a telltale sign of his amusement. 

“You’d...tempt...me?” Azira was nearly curled up in giddy laughter. Oh, he was in no condition for this. His bruised organs were positively screaming in outrage. “What utter nerve you have!” 

“I was only trying to show you a thing or two about tempting, seeing as though you know nothing about it,” Crowley jeered but with no bite in his words. 

“You’ll make an excellent demon, dear.” 

There was an awkward pause. Crowley’s brows had almost raised past his hairline. 

“No offence—I mean, full offence, you foul saint!” Azira clutched his aching head in his hands and chuckled glumly. “A much better demon than me, anyway.” 

“Zira...” 

The image of Crowley’s face blurred in and out of focus. 

“Oh, but my dear...?” Azira’s head had hit the table before he even realised. Spots of darkness were burning holes in his vision. “You’ll...still be so...great...I know you will...” 

“Zira!” 

Everything blacked out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I literally procrastinated writing this for 2 months I’m so sorry HAHA


	4. Rome, a few days later

A small child knelt weeping in a garden. His wings, white as snow on christmas day, were folded close to his sides as if in some effort to comfort himself. He had little clue of the strange wetness pooling in his eyes, much less why he was feeling this way, or how to stop it. 

**Aziraphale.**

The angel jumped. He could not wipe away the tears on his face in time, for a solid yet molten warmth embraced him from behind in the shape of gentle arms. 

“Mother, what is happening to me?” He melted in the safety of Her hold. 

**What did you see?**

“R—Raphael.” He realised with a small tremble. “They were quarreling. He and Gabriel. They fought.” 

**And what did that make you feel?**

Hands stroked through his curls. Aziraphale clutched and mumbled into his mother’s robes, “Upset. I—I do not understand. Why can’t we all just get along?”

**My child. My little one.**

Mother’s voice was strangely sad. She spun him around and held him closer, till his chin rested on her not-so-tangible shoulder and he could feel the soft flames of her bright hair billowing behind her back. 

**Your kindness has always been the brightest thing about you. **

**But one day, it will make you fall.**

Like all angels, Aziraphale felt nothing but piercing fear at the dreaded word. Yet he was still in safe harbour within his mother’s arms, drifting like an idyllic ship at sea. He saw the choppy waters ahead, the storm clouds that roosted in the dark horizon. But for now he was safe. For now he was well, with the only being in the universe who ever loved him back. 

“I will if it is in your plan, Mother.” Aziraphale promised. “I’ll do anything you tell me to. Anything at all.” 

**I know you will, my little one. **

**That is why even at your darkest hours, I will always remain by your side.**

Aziraphale was a child no longer. 

Now his wings were burning, searing from white to black, and the wind lashed like knives through all corners of his flailing form. Tears plucked free from his eyes; drop by drop, like beads pulling free of their string. They rose up towards the heavens while he himself Fell. 

Down, down, under. 

_ Mother, _ he was weeping again, _ Why have you abandoned me? _

She had already warned him. This was always inevitable, part of the Ineffable Plan. He already knew. And yet it hardly helped. He wondered if he would be better off not knowing. The betrayal that singed and burned through his heart now was still so raw and vengeful; he hated Heaven, he hated Mother, all the angels—but most of all, he hated himself. 

He was merely a pawn on the chessboard. A pawn had no right to feel wronged or pained from being knocked off the tiles. It was part of something far greater than it will ever be, and if its sacrifice ensured certain victory for its player, then that sacrifice was a just and necessary move. 

So why did it still hurt so much? 

Light stung the murky waters of his closed eyelids. What woke up first were his ears, and they picked up a voice in the darkness, humming ever so sweetly. It was a song of flowers fanning their petals up at the midday sun, like holding the hand of a loved one, like having your hair stroked and being told that everything was alright. 

Azira opened his eyes. The cobblestone ceiling swam into view. A figure was seated beside him, their back against the sunlight. It was too blinding to be able to see their face. Like cascading rivers of flames, their hair ran past their right shoulder and weaved into a loose braid studded with wildflowers. 

Azira’s head went very quiet. He listened to their muffled singing, watched half-lidded as they thumbed across the scroll in their spidery hands. A scroll! His curiosity couldn’t help but be piqued. They were relatively new in the market, strange rolls of paper filled from top to bottom with incomprensible symbols. Yet some humans were able to make sense of them, claiming that they were whole fountains of knowledge, cornerstones of the new age of humanity. It was hard not to be impressed by such bold words.

“How long are you planning on staring?” The figure asked him slyly. 

“_ Raphael _ !” Azira almost fell off the bed. “What are you—where—why are _ you _ here?” 

The archangel stood up, angling his face towards the sun. The light struck his star-gold eyes and made them glow with a kind of celestial energy most demons would run away screaming from. Azira only squinted and shielded his eyes.

“Stopping _ you _ from discorporating.” Raphael folded his arms with a huff. “‘Nipped in for a quick temptation’—really? Like I said before, Zira, you’re a terrible liar.”

“Oh, but you believed me.” Azira hid a smile. 

“Shut upppp.”

“Err, Raphael?”

“It’s _ Crowley _.” 

“Right. Yes. Crowley. Quick question.” He narrowed his eyes and glanced about the room. “Am I in your house?”

“So what if you are?” Crowley arched a brow. It was perfect, really; complementing all the angular features of his sharp face. 

“You—“ Azira wanted to yell, then found his ribs in a supernova of pain and paused. It left him with enough composure to carry on in a strangled tone of voice, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are an archangel, who willingly brought a demon back to their house, _ then _ nursed the said demon back to health, without once thinking about the consequences?”

“Yes, yes, yes, err, what consequences?”

Azira rubbed his temples. He pointed to Crowley, then to himself, and gestured to the roof above their heads. “Angel. Demon. The same house. Aren’t you the slightest bit worried of what your folks have to say about this?”

Crowley scoffed and rolled his eyes. Azira could only hope he didn’t display the same attitude in heaven—and satan forbid—to God herself.

“They’re not the _slightest bit_ interested in my affairs. Too much for them to stomach, I bet. Literally. Once I caught Gabriel spying on me and I invited him to lunch. Guess what we ate.” 

Azira was bursting with ideas. “White bread dipped in wine? A nice selection of cheeses? Oh—perhaps sausages?”

Crowley leaned his cheek into his palm, smirking. “Flamingo tongues. Also, a couple of dormice for dessert. ” 

“_ Well _.” Azira was impressed. “You have expensive tastes, for sure.” 

“That wasn’t what good old Gabe thought. He left me alone ever since.” 

Azira stifled a bout of chuckles into his palm. He cleared his throat and composed himself however, before the grin on Crowley’s face could grow too big. 

“That’s besides the point, my dear. The point is—“

“The point is?” Crowley echoed impishly. 

“We cannot be seen together. Ever. Do you have any idea of what the other demons would do to me if they see us...well, acting all chummy like this?”

A flash of hurt seized hold of Crowley’s face. Azira regretted his words immediately. He reached out towards him but Crowley was faster, drawing away with his arms taut against his chest. With his light grey robes and the lilies in his hair he was a sorrowful image of mourning. 

“The demons did this to you.” Crowley met his gaze for only a second. But that was long enough to see the irate storm behind those golden eyes. Then the clouds broke, the rain fell, and the skies wept cold and grey. “Is it...really because of me?”

Azira clutched the sheets. “Crowley.”

The angel had already turned his back, shoulders hunched forward.

He struggled to rise. Only, his physical form was really not cooperating with him today. Azira shed the burden that was a bruised and bleeding human body, letting feathers bloom across his skin, till he was an owl soaring across the room to perch on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“_ My dear _ . _ Look at me. Please _.” He nuzzled his face into the angel’s cheek. 

Crowley did, unsure and ashamed, the tension around his eyes making him seem as if he was scowling. 

“_ None of it was your fault. How could it be? You’re an archangel. You can do no wrong _.”

He barked a bitter laugh. “Doubt it.”

Azira softened. Sometimes he was aware he spoke the words of a hypocrite. If all angels could do no wrong, then there would not be demons. He would not be here now, on earth, by Crowley’s side and yet worlds apart from where he stood. 

Falling was terrible business and all, but if Falling was what it took for him to know of Crowley’s companionship, then perhaps it wasn’t such a great sacrifice after all. 

“_ It’s never you, my dear _ .” Azira blinked, slow and gentle. “ _ It’s all me. My fault. We all have to pay for our own shortcomings, don’t we? _”

“Maybe not.” 

Azira was confused by the sudden sight of a cunning smile. Crowley lifted him up with both hands and very gently set him down on the desk, then knelt down before him with his head ducked. Massive wings unfurled from his back. Azira stared. Every feather looked to be coated in gold, spilling stardust as they fanned out and straightened with a backward roll of Crowley’s shoulders. 

Crowley reached for his left wing. He took a sleek primary between his thumb and index, then plucked it free without so much of a flinch. 

Azira’s cry came out as a distressed hoot. “_ Crowley! _”

The angel was completely unperturbed. He held up the single gold feather between them, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Take this back with you. Tell Head Office how you bested an archangel today, even after being roughed up by a couple of bastards. No one will dare lay a finger on you from now on.”

“I can’t do that!” In his shock, he thrashed back into human form and sat perched on the edge of the desk. He held his bandaged hands to his face. “That’s...too much, my dear, it’s—well it’s—if anyone finds out, you’ll get into trouble!”

“No one ever has to know,” Crowley answered in a sing-song voice. “Take it.”

He stuck the shaft of his feather behind Azira’s ear before he could protest. Azira touched the vane of it, marvelling at its incredible softness, though the residual angelic energy still pricked and burned his skin. 

“But I don’t have anything to repay you with,” Azira lamented sadly. Looking at the generosity in Crowley’s eyes, his heart began aching in the strangest of ways and he couldn’t begin to imagine why. 

“Nah. We had a fair trade.” 

From the folds of his robes, Crowley drew out a single black feather. Azira would have recognised it anywhere. 

He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Where did you…”

“Found it while I was having a stroll.” Crowley twirled its shaft between his fingers thoughtfully. “Say. If _ I _told my Head Office that I purged a demon today, you think they’ll let me stay on earth a little longer?”

“I thought you were banished here,” Azira said helplessly. His mind was whirling from so many things it was hard to think straight. “Don’t you want to go home?”

“No.” Crowley’s eyes were wide. With excitement. With zeal. “Do you?”

Azira touched the gold feather in his ear absently. He knew what he had to do. “Not at all, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I had to google ‘exotic ancient roman food’ but I guess there’s a first for everything.


	5. 537AD kingdom of Wessex

There was a general air of calamity about which Azira had worked very hard to create. Still, most of it was done by the humans, and they were rather good at things like setting fires and terrifying the masses. All Azira had done was speak a few lines of temptations into the right ears and watch it all unfold. He should let the humans take the wheel more often. Less work for him, much better results. 

He sat on the edge of a cobblestone wall and watched as a nearby house collapsed into the arms of greedy flames. No rest for the wicked; the fire spread to the next house quickly, running up its skinny timber frame. In a matter of seconds the roof had caught aflame, and its inhabitants rushed out screaming while clutching their diamonds and gold. No, of course you can’t forget about those. Human lives? Replaceable. Wealth? Immortal.

The bandits had them surrounded in an instant. 

“You won’t get away with this.” For all the bravado in the man’s voice, he was still trembling knees and wetted breeches. “K—King Arthur’s men will hunt down every last one of you, j—just you wait!” 

Azira laughed. He did it more for effect than anything else, because while he didn’t really have a particular reason to frighten humans so much, it _ was _ one of the job requirements. And these days, Azira took a lot of pride in making sure people could see he was good at what he did. 

“Go on.” Azira drew out an apple from his toolbelt and polished it with a sleeve. When he sank his teeth into it, the flesh crunched like the snapping of bones. “Shout. Scream. Let’s see if anyone can hear you, shall we?” 

The man paled. His wife, now clearly distraught and with a face of smudged, awful makeup, bleated out an ugly wail. “Demon...you’re a demon!” 

She howled and ran for the hills. An assortment of jewellery fell from her rucksack, a trail of gleaming breadcrumbs. An emerald necklace. A pearl bracelet. A gold wedding band that belonged to some other. 

“One’s getting away,” Azira said plainly. 

His bandits snapped to attention immediately, their swords raising like bristling fur on hunting dogs. A small group fervently gave chase. The others stayed close by Azira’s side where they knew greater trouble brewed. There was something about the man—if it was a man at all—that kept the bandits hungry, on edge. Perhaps it was his aura, cold and empty and not of this world, or that look in his eyes that always seemed to know something they didn’t. 

“M’lord!” The scout waved frantically. He was only a boy, barely thirteen, all quick limbs and shifty eyes and all things good for keeping a lookout. There were smashed carts and wooden splinters strewn all over the path downhill. He lost his footing on a protruding plank. 

Azira deftly caught him by the arm. “Any news, child?” 

The scout flushed. “Horses spotted in the east, m’lord. About a ‘undred men strong, all bearing King Arthur’s crest.” 

“Well well.” Azira drew back, lifting a brow. He chanced a look at his men. They held the crimson eyes of wolves, hungry and incensed. Now this wouldn’t do. The last thing he needed was an all out war on his hands. Although, that might just earn him a couple more credits in Hell’s good books. He contemplated this. No—too messy. He was an outlaw, not a ruffian. Plus, he had standards. What would Raphael think if he pulled something as underhanded as this? 

Azira pieced together a plan quickly. “Fetch me a horse, will you, dear boy?” He clapped the scout on the back. “I will take a look at our new guests. For the rest of you…” 

He was fetched a black Mustang, already saddled up and ready to ride. Azira took hold of the reins and swung himself up, keeping one hand firm on its great neck to steady it. He then swept one last commanding stare across the ragtag ranks of his men to drive the message home.

“Stay here. Under no circumstances are you to follow me, understand?” 

The bandits nodded. They averted their eyes. Azira frowned, but realised there were more pressing matters on his hands at the moment and thought it best to forget about it. With a flick of the reins the Mustang reared and broke into a fierce gallop, hooves thundering across the dirt paths. 

The green hills beyond the thin fledgling of trees rose and dipped like the tides at sea. It was not a clear day by any means. Every breath he took was heavy with mist, and he could see no farther than the immediate radius around him. Not very helpful in spotting a giant army. Well, maybe it would be a lot faster and easier if he just took to the air. 

He pulled the horse to a stop by an outcropping. Unbuckling the saddle and the reins, he disposed of them carelessly on the rocks and patted the mare’s sleek neck. Such terribly poor creatures, horses. Meant to be majestic and free, yet enslaved to the services of men.

“Thank you, dear girl.” He put his forehead against the mare’s and closed his eyes. With his mind, he conveyed to her an image of a nearby clearing where a herd frolicked. Perhaps there she could seek safe asylum, free from the likes of whips and spurs. 

The mare nuzzled his face gently before throttling off. Azira walked towards the edge of the cliff, wrinkling his nose at the damp gust of wind that blew from the chasm below. It was a sea of white down there, an ocean born of clouds. Breathtaking. If the sun shone down at this exact spot right now, it would be a splitting image of Heaven’s grounds. 

Azira clutched the string he wore around his neck. How long has it been since he last saw Raphael? Long enough, judging by the frost that had grown over his heart again. This was his world—barren and cold, while Raphael’s was all burning flames and light. Whenever they ran into each other like passing stars, Azira could tap into that warmth for just a little while to feel his heart thaw, before they each went on separate ways. Their worlds would pull apart, and the delicate heat would recede. Then Azira would be by himself in his cold, lonely world again, and Raphael in his own. Never looking back at each other. Never with a backward glance. This was how the two of them were. 

Feathers bloomed all over his skin. He took to the skies in his owl form, soaring through the dense fog with a shrill cry. A falcon answered. Messenger birds; they were trained to travel and deliver, but not to keep silent. 

Azira dived towards the call. Breaking through the last fog cover he was immediately face-to-face with an army on horseback. Polished chainmail. Scarlet flags. The crest of a gold dragon. _ Pendragon _. He felt unease crawl down his spine. King Arthur was many things, but definitely not one to be messed with in direct combat. He was glad he’d told the bandits to keep away. They wouldn’t stand a chance. 

A lone figure caught his eye. Dressed in robes the colour of tainted snow on a winter’s day, there was a presence about this being that drew Azira into a circle above them. And as if they could sense him as well, their slim hands drew back their hood slightly, only for Azira to catch a flash of bright auburn locks. 

The Archangel lifted his arm. He wore a gold vambrace, so Azira didn’t worry about hurting him as he swept down and landed on his wrist. The horse underneath whinnied in alarm, fidgeting out of rank. It took much difficulty before its rider could coax it back into place again. 

“_ Is that you under there, Raphael? _” Azira peeked into his hood. 

“Crowley.” He pushed it back all the way with one hand, letting his ginger hair spill free in mesmerising waves. Azira was at once so enchanted that he realised in a burst of annoyance that he was overlooking something very important. 

“_ What the heaven are you playing at? _ ” He admonished. “ _ Decided to be an active part of human wars now, is that it? _”

Crowley made a face. “No, I’m spreading foment.” 

“_ Some kind of porridge? _” 

“No. I’m, you know, fomenting peace and tranquility in the name of King Arthur. There’s too much dissent in these lands lately. Bandits pillaging and setting fires to villages everywhere, stuff like that,” he said vaguely. 

“_ Well I’m afraid that’s my doing. See, I’m meant to be fomenting discord, and I must say I am finally doing quite a good job at it. _ ” Azira puffed up his feathers proudly. “ _ Know the village over there? Absolutely wrecked. Homes burnt, townspeople terrified, animals out of their pens _.” 

“The village over there you say? That’s where we’re headed. To help fix damages, heal the wounded, capture ruffians...” Crowley deadpanned. “So we’re both working very hard, in damp places, just cancelling each other out?” 

Silence. Horses snorted and whipped their tails and men coughed into their hands, but that was it. Utter, painful and embarrassing silence. 

“_ It _ ** _is_ ** _ a bit damp, _” Azira admitted. 

The war horn sounded abruptly, like the groaning of a massive beast rousing from sleep. Ravens filled the air with cries and took off from treetops. Knights left and right flinched to attention, at once unsheathing their swords.

“Bandits spotted in the north! Full charge ahead!” 

Azira smacked his face with a wing. “_ Those idiots. _” 

Crowley was trying to peer front with the most entertained expression on his face. “Is that your lot over there? Ha! They won’t stand a chance.” 

The knights all around were already spurring their horses into action, charging forth with valiant shouts. Only they remained put amidst the sea of clashing swords and raining arrows and absolute mayhem. 

“_ I tried to warn them. Say, there isn’t a boy over there, is there? Thirteen, short, dirty-looking. _” 

“Nah. All big, balding, nasty looking men.” 

The tension left his shoulders. Good to know that at least his scout had common sense not to come along. When he went home today, he would be very happy to see a pouch of gold on his bed, enough to feed his whole family and keep him out of trouble for the foreseeable future. 

All in a day’s work. 

“I was thinking, it would be a bit easier if we both stayed home.” 

Azira offered the Archangel one long, hard questioning look. 

“Send messages back to our Head Offices to say we’ve done everything they’ve asked for?” Crowley continued innocently. 

He couldn’t believe his ears. “_My dear fellow!_ _Are you actually implying that you’ll lie to ditch work?_”

“It’s not lying. Not completely anyway. End result will be the same. You know.” Crowley shrugged. “Cancel each other out.” 

“_ But surely they’d check! And I don’t mean my lot, I mean yours! _” 

“Ehhh. Michael’s a bit of a stickler. Gabriel’s real pissy when mad. But nothing I can’t handle.” 

Azira had never felt so flummoxed all his life. His better nature was screaming at him to tell Crowley off, that this was wrong, that he was appalled an Archangel would even suggest such a thing, but being a demon technically meant that he _ had _no better nature. 

Confusion quickly turned into realisation and then into pure delight. 

He leaned in close to Crowley’s ear and purred, “_ Drinks on me, my dear? _”

————

Azira realised a few things quickly. A) Crowley was simply rubbish with horses, B) he was with all animals actually, being somewhat serpent-like, and C) this was hilarious for an angel. 

“Left. Left a bit.” Crowley yanked desperately on the reins. “No—that’s too far! Too far. Front again. No, not _ back _ you herbivore— _ unnnnghhhhh _.” He buried his face into his hands. 

“_ Need a little help? _” Azira had made himself very comfortable in the hood of Crowley’s grey cloak. 

“Zira. The horse does not want to enter the stables. I have been trying for _ ten _ minutes.” 

“_ I know, dear. I was counting. _” He swooped to the ground and reverted forms. If anyone saw the impossibility that was an owl turning into a human, they blinked quickly and blamed themselves for imagining things. 

Azira patted the side of the horse’s snout affectionately. “It’s been a hard journey for you, isn’t it? Oh, I think so too, you poor thing. Why don’t we get into the stables where it’s nice and warm and I’ll ask someone to brush your coat for you?”

Crowley watched, jaw agape, as his mount trotted into the stables on its own accord. “It’s a miracle!” 

“We don’t do miracles.” Azira scoffed but his heart wasn’t in it. He held out a hand. 

Softening, Crowley took it, about to step on the stirrups to make his way down when the horse shifted to the right suddenly and he lost his footing. 

“Oh—!” Azira rushed forward, managing to catch an armful of soft cloak and an even softer warmth underneath. At the moment, he was carrying the Archangel in what one could only describe as bridal-style. The world screeched to a stop. 

“Damn horse,” Crowley croaked, pulling his hood down over his face. His cheeks were vividly aflame, fanned by the gorgeous copper curls of his hair. He was so close; close enough to touch, to feel those locks slip between his fingers like woven silk, like threads of bronze.

Azira remembered himself. “S—sorry.” He set Crowley down hurriedly, drawing himself back up with a light cough. Crowley was gazing at him with the strangest of expressions. He made sure there was a safe distance between them before he spoke again, with a catch in his throat, “Well. This is the inn I’m staying at for the moment. Shall we go to the bar or do you want to come upstairs?” 

Oh satan. Why did he even suggest the second option? It was too late to take back his words. He could only hope (but _ was _ he hoping?) that Crowley would make a good, sound decision to avoid any potentially awkward situations. 

“I’ve always wanted to see a demon’s lair.” The archangel grinned impishly. “Lead the way, foul fiend!” 

Mischief suited Crowley, Azira realised. It complemented the glint in his eyes and his too-sharp teeth and all his angular features. An angel with a knack for troublemaking; a contradiction so unthinkable it was surreal—and yet how gloriously one of a kind! 

Gingerly, watching Crowley the entire time to make sure he wasn’t having any second thoughts, Azira headed to the base of the stairs and gestured towards him. “After you.” 

The staircase was cramped and dark. It was not a decent inn by any means, attracting all sorts of common thugs and very possibly serial killers on the run. Azira had taken up residence here in hopes of keeping a low profile, but now he worried about bringing his angel friend into such a rancid establishment. Surely Crowley would mind. Even in this murky darkness, a faint white glow resided over the Archangel, the light of all things Pure and Good refusing to let even a shred of darkness sully his celestial form.

Azira envied that light. Once upon a time it had been such a constant presence that he barely noticed it, but now its gaping absence was one of the few things he could still feel. 

“Hmm.” Crowley regarded the gaping holes in the floors and the ceilings of the common hallway. He stared especially long at a motionless hand that laid protruding out of an ajar door. “Ah.”

“This way, my dear.” Azira put a hand on Crowley’s back to keep him from looking about too much. He’d already done him enough harm by bringing him into such a place. He should be ashamed. 

“Here we are. Make yourself at home.” 

His room was the farthest door on the left. It looked nothing like the rest of the dilapidated inn, courtesy of a few touches of demonic magic. All four walls were intact, for one, and the door actually had a functioning lock and soundproofing to keep out unwanted attention. 

Azira grunted and stretched. It had been a rough day. He shrugged off his heavy outerwear, which consisted of his black short cloak and tool belt. He undid the laces of his leather wrist cuffs, pulled off his hunting boots and socks, and finally straightened out the creases in his midnight tunic. 

He only just realised that Crowley was staring. Openly, hyperfixatedly, brows raising almost to his hairline. Like a deer in the headlights.

“Enjoying the show, my dear?” Azira asked coyly, making an elaborate show of revealing an inch of skin as he pulled his vest over and off his tunic. 

Crowley glanced away hastily. He was blinking too fast to not look like someone who had been caught red handed. “Haha. No. Err. No.” 

Azira delicately bit back a laugh. “May I take your cloak?” 

“Mmm,” he murmured noncommittally. 

The cloak was fastened in place by a serpent-shaped gold brooch, resting just underneath the sharp lines of Crowley’s collarbones. It came open easily under his fingers. Crowley rolled back his shoulders so the cloak came off easily, and Azira distracted himself with hooking it up by the door to avoid staring too much at Crowley smoothing out his voluminous hair. 

“What’s behind here?” Crowley seemed to have taken quite an interest in the alcove he’d kept hidden behind a curtain. 

“The rotting bones of my enemies, obviously.” 

Crowley drew the curtains aside. His eyes promptly widened, sparkled, and he muffled a scoff into his palm. 

“Don’t laugh,” Azira warned pointedly. “I’m telling you—”

“I thought you had more valuable things to hide, Zira. But _ books _? Really?” 

Azira came up behind him and smiled proudly at his collection. It was still humble, barely a stashing of more than twenty books, but still his prized possessions nonetheless. “I’ve just gotten into reading a few hundred years ago. The number of things humans could think of! Perfectly endless, my dear boy. It does do a rather splendid job of keeping the boredom away.” 

“What, when you’re not burning down villages and harassing the townsfolk?” Crowley shrugged, losing interest. He slumped down by a low table with his knees up and his sleeves pulled back, drumming fingers against the wood restlessly. 

Azira seated himself elegantly opposite him. With one sweep of his hand, two silver mugs of frothing beer and a plate of fruits materialised. He offered a mug to Crowley. “All part of the job, I’m afraid. You _ are _conversing with a demon.” 

Crowley looked him in the eyes as he took it. Their fingers brushed for just a second, but the ghost of his touch remained as a steady burn on Azira’s skin. 

“Truth to be told, I wasn’t too keen on helping out today.” Crowley took a long, heavy drag of the fizzling beer. He dragged the back of his wrist against his lips. 

“What, the Archangel of Healing suddenly longs for a career change?” 

Crowley waved his words away. “Can’t, even if I wanted to. No. It’s ‘cause I know the reputation of all the villages you wreck. They’re all fine scoundrels, aren’t they?” 

Azira popped a grape into his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Hmm.” Crowley’s lips twitched into a smirk. He leaned his cheek into his palm, staring straight with those infuriatingly attractive eyes of his. “Exacting revenge on the rich who steals from the poor? Sounds awfully like justice to me.” 

“I burned homes, Crowley. Stranded entire families out in the cold.” 

“Well, sure. Give ‘em a good old taste of their own medicine, eh?”

Azira shrugged, bursting a grape between his teeth. “And what about you? Going about curing ailments? Consoling the sick and comforting the dying?” 

Crowley’s eyes darkened immediately. He drew back, seeming as if multiple walls had just closed over his face, and suddenly Azira stood swaying by the wide chasm of distance that had opened up between them. It was dizzying and alarming. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Azira didn’t push it. Instead, he peeled an orange and offered a slice to his friend. “Eat.” 

He had to reach all the way across the table to drop it into Crowley’s palm. His collar pulled quite a bit away from his neck. Crowley snapped his eyes upwards like a hawk, strangely intent, and Azira felt his skin crawl in that moment as if he’d suddenly been seen naked. 

“What’s that you’re wearing round your neck?” 

“Accessorising, dear boy. Haven’t you heard of it?” 

“Didn’t think demons cared for it.” Crowley nibbled on his orange. 

Azira only said simply, “I’m not like most demons.” 

The night dragged on. When conversation dwindled they gulped down their beer, and because the contents of their mugs never seemed to empty out, drinking was really all that they did. Azira had been drunk before. Alone (not enjoyable) and with company (better), adventurers and bards and knights whose loudness replaced the hollowness perpetually in his heart. But he’d never been drunk with Crowley. 

He quickly realised that he’d be damned again if he didn’t do it more often. 

Crowley, under the influence of alcohol, was all stutters and hisses and a lovely flushed complexion. “Hic—y’know _ whasssshisname— _Hic—Arthur, Zira?” 

“You mean the King, Crowley?” Azira answered lazily. 

“Yeah, yeah—dasss the chap. Good bloke, nghhh, pure of heart an’ all that. Wished he wasss a bit more in’eresting, honestly.” 

Azira smiled against the rim of his mug. “Careful, m’dear. Walls have ears.” 

“Where?” He glanced about blearily. The collar of his loose grey tunic sunk low and revealed a necklace that Azira couldn’t stop staring at. “I dun see any.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Wha’s what?” 

“That.” Azira pointed vaguely. “Thingy. There. Up a bit—yes. That.” 

Crowley’s slim fingers twined the rope of his necklace. “Thissss? You’ve got one. Show me yours and maybe I’ll show you mine.” 

Azira rolled his eyes. He pulled his necklace out to the front of his tunic, letting it hang overtly for all to see. The sole thing attached to the simple, woven black string was a single gold feather, miracled to be durable and yet still soft to touch. 

Crowley’s eyes blew wide. He shook his head, threw an arm across his eyes before bursting right out into raucous laughter. Azira grinned in response, fondly taking hold of the feather tip to twirl it gently between his fingers. 

“That actually mine? All this time—you kept it on you?”

“How could I not?”

“Sssooo sentimental,” Crowley critiqued, wiping tears from his eyes. “‘m sure your pals all _ loved _ to see it.” 

“I’m quite popular down there, all thanks to this. Head Office didn’t object to showing off a bit of trophy hunting.” Azira winked. 

Crowley loved it, just as he’d thought. He leaned forward on lanky arms and purred, “Sly demon. Slyyyy.” 

“That’s not what you called me a second ago.” 

Perhaps the alcohol bolded him. Azira’s hand wandered forward on its own accord, freezing just as it was about to truly come close. “May I?”

Crowley’s eyes grew half-lidded. “Mmm.”

He deftly scooped up the string around the Archangel’s neck, both of them shuddering when his pinky accidentally brushed against his skin. Crowley hid his face, just a little, as Azira examined his necklace wordlessly.

“And you called _ me _ sentimental, my dear?” 

He stuck his tongue out and scowled. “‘s different. ‘m an angel, we’re meant to be saps. Love all Her creation…” Crowley gestured vaguely, a motion with his hands encompassing the entire world. ”...Big and small.” 

The void in Azira’s heart panged suddenly, a sudden fierce storm of hurt and ache so strong it was utterly inconsolable. He clutched a fistful of his tunic above his chest and ducked his head. 

“Even me?” 

Although he did not look up, he could still feel the smouldering heat of Crowley’s gaze. It felt as if he was in heaven again, leaning back against the clouds, basking under the light and warmth of eternal day. And that was a very long time ago. 

“Sure,” drawled Crowley after a long pause. He reached over to flick him lightly on the forehead. “You’re pretty neat.” 

“Aren’t you just a charmer,” Azira scoffed. 

“Y’know, when I showed this to Head Office, it was still entirely black. But day by day, it started fading. Black, then grey, then...” He traced the feather’s seamless gradient from the bottom up. “White, right at the tippy tip. It stayed like this ever since.”

Azira yawned. He was usually uptight around others (standards), but something about Crowley made him seem part of this home and he could quite literally let his feathers loose. As he stretched against the foot of the bed, rolling his shoulders back, his wings unfurled easily from the point of his back and hung like two veils around them. A warm curtained space, safe from the rest of the world. 

“Oh,” echoed Crowley. He held the feather up and looked slightly dazed by the fact the blend of colours across its vane and the entire length of Azira’s wings was one and the same. “It’d been so long, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Azira drawled, lifting his head slightly as Crowley inched closer. He did not move away. 

“How they looked like. How warm they are.” 

He nearly startled when Crowley fell abruptly into his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist with the desperation of a drowning, flailing man. 

“Crowley—” Azira gasped. When was the last time he’d ever been so close to someone? The intimacy and shock was almost too much to bear, with all the shared warmth and weight and the friction of skin upon skin, fabric upon skin. He tensed, arms shaking with effort from keeping himself so still. His wings held taut in the air with every feather fanning fully out. 

He chanced a terrified glance upon the angel in his lap. Crowley’s head was against his thigh and his eyes were shut tight. White teeth were pulled over trembling lips. Azira softened. 

“Crowley,” he said again, collecting himself. He relaxed and his wings drooped, one spreading over Crowley like a blanket. After some fierce debate with himself, he lifted a hand and very gingerly brought it to the top of Crowley’s head. Soft hair tickled his palm. Crowley did not shy away. More certain now, he brought the full weight of his hand down and gently combed his fingers through those auburn locks, something he had embarrassingly dreamed about doing too many times. His heart leapt painfully when Crowley made a sound between a sigh and a whine into his robes, leaning into his touch. 

“My dear,” Azira whispered. “Are you quite all right?”

Fingers dug into his waist. “No.” 

Azira hummed and stroked his hair till he relaxed again. 

“There’s something bothering you. Is it heaven? The other angels? Or did something happen on earth? Did the humans do something to you?”

Crowley shifted, peering up at him through wet golden eyes. “Why’re you mad?”

His hand faltered. _ Was _ he mad? He supposed he must be, considering the hot rush that seemed to light his veins on fire. But it wasn’t like him at all to be so easily riled up. A hand held his. Crowley brought it up against the side of his face, and leaned his cheek into Azira’s palm. 

“Do you ever think...that the human world is so unhappy, all the time?”

Azira looked away. He was a demon, so the obvious answer was yes—yes, of course it was, what else would he be up here working his feathers off for?—but he didn’t know if that was the right answer. Emotions and human hearts were perplexing conundrums. If other humans felt they had no right to think they knew all about them, then Azira would have even less. 

“Does it bother you?” he asked instead, stroking Crowley’s hair. 

“I know our jobs are to ease suffering, but it’s like it hardly makes a difference, you know?” Crowley trailed off, eyes growing half-lidded. “I’m the Archangel of Healing, but I’m not allowed to heal everyone. Sometimes I’ve gotta heal bastards and jerks that are better off left for dead, cause it’s all part of the _ Divine Plan.” _ He drew imaginary commas with his fingers and scowled. “And other times, I can’t heal those who really needs it. Innocent people, good people really, and kids…” 

Tears trickled down his face. Azira thumbed them all away, streak by streak. 

“For every human that I heal, a hundred more die or suffer terrible fates. What’s the point, Zira? Am I doing it wrong?” His voice broke, and at once the sadness consumed him so fiercely that he curled up into a shuddering heap. 

Azira sighed. He gathered Crowley fully up into his arms, rubbing soothing circles across his back, wiping away the tears that never seemed to stop. Where they left damp marks on the floorboards beneath, flowers actually began sprouting from the cracks, hanging their sullen faces and drooping petals, weeping into their leaves. 

“Oh Crowley. You know this isn’t your fault. Humans have always been free to choose their own fates. They walked out of Eden on their own two feet, remember?” 

“Are they really?” Crowley’s words were a slow sigh, like water trickling downhill from the crevices between roots. “What if we’re all just puppets, dancing in Mother’s hands?” 

Azira saw stars and comets falling in the dark waters on his mind. He couldn’t help a bitter laugh, and reached up to gently cover Crowley’s eyes. 

“Those, my dear, are dangerous questions.”

“Zira…” 

He continued firmly, “Don’t ever let the others hear you speak of this. They _ will _ destroy you, Crowley. The last thing I want is to see you Fall.” 

_ Oh Mother. If you can still hear me, then please always protect the light in his eyes. Don’t cast him away, like you did to me. He is more precious than I ever was. _

“My dear.” Azira held Crowley’s wrist and brought it to his lips. “Promise me that you will keep yourself safe. Will you do that? For me?” 

The celestial light in his eyes gleamed fond and sad. Still, they shone like stars. 

“Okay.” Crowley nodded, leaning into the curve of Azira’s shoulder. “Okay.” 

————

In the first light of morning, Azira woke up warm. He felt about him dazedly and felt soft sheets under his wandering palms. Someone had moved him into bed. He sat up, blinking quickly against the blinding light, searching mindlessly for a presence in the room. 

But there was no one here. 

That’s strange. He had been so sure that there had been someone else. Wasn’t that why he awoke feeling so at home?

He gazed towards the bedside table. There was a single stalk of fire lily, a folded note and a…

Azira picked it up. Held it between his fingers, turning it this way and that against the light. It was an intricate ring woven out of two gold serpents, with rubies studded in their eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been so subtle in staring after all. But it was such lovely craftsmanship, and it suited Crowley so well. 

The note was curt, yet it made his heart twirl and dance in the strangest of ways. 

_ Thanks for last night. _

—_ C _

“Oh, my dear.” Azira slipped the ring onto his index finger. It fit so snugly that he knew Crowley must have adjusted it himself. “You shouldn’t have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I wanted to finish this weeks ago but school vibe checked me so hard I-
> 
> Anyways, thank you guys so much for all the kudos and the comments! They really help this writing process feel less alone ;D


	6. 1660 - Aboard the seven seas

“Drop the sails! Ready the cannons!” The captain barked. Under the pelting rain, the crew scurried madly across the flooded deck. Ropes were slashed, cannons were loaded and positioned at the ready, and rusty swords were passed into eager hands. 

“Cap’n, incoming!” someone shrieked, just as the massive spiked front of another ship’s bow came surging across the waves from their left. Hidden by the violent storm, it would have been impossible to see them coming until it was too late. 

“Bastards,” the captain cursed. He took hold of the helm and gave it a sharp yank, laughing uproariously when the vessel beneath their feet veered sideways at a force enough to sweep grown men off their feet. The sails swelled fully against the rush of the winds. Their urging hands launched the ship forward, creating a safe distance between the two ships. For now. 

There was an owl perched on the captain’s shoulder. It swept a steady glance across the mess down on the deck. Some men still laid sprawling, and most of the barrels have long tumbled overboard. As did some of the crew. It did seem like there were a few people short, suddenly.

“_ Enjoying yourself, my dear? _” The owl nipped a lock of auburn hair tumbling out from under the captain’s tricorn hat. Azira almost couldn’t stand the sight of it. Pure white, woven with jewels, but most obnoxious of all studded with feathers belonging to some common fowl. He had half a mind not to pluck them out that very instant. 

“I’m only just getting started.” Crowley flashed a grin. His left eye was obscured under an eyepatch (Azira had advised against wearing it, but Crowley insisted on getting pirate fashion right, which was ridiculous because there was no such thing as pirate fashion in the first place), and his right was shockingly gold in the dark heart of the storm. His low ponytail, having come undone, was now an untamed flame billowing out on the freezing winds. Everything was cold, and very, very wet. Azira’s nose was starting to run.

Perhaps the only consolidation is this miserable landscape was the effort Crowley put into his getup. The first time Crowley had donned those clothes, they were still up on land, agreeing to meet for drinks at the seaside inn. He’d showed up with his leather boots propped boldly on the table, lanky arms crossed to his chest. 

It marked the first time Azira blasphemed: “Crowley! Good _ lord _.”

After all, the Archangel did look rather dashing in his maroon doublet and white puffy-sleeved tunic. A silk sash was tied around his waist, gold like the hoop earrings half-hidden in his hair and the bangles on his wrists and the vivid colour of his serpent eyes. It really should rain harder so Azira could see the funny little ways Crowley’s clothes would plaster onto his skin, or the way raindrops would slide down the length of his lashes. 

“_ Do be careful, dear boy. People _ ** _will_ ** _ talk if they catch wind of how you’ve sunk four ships this week. _” 

“Four?” Crowley scoffed. “Two of them weren’t even my fault.” 

“_ Yes they were _.”

“Yeap, they were. But fret not, matey. Today’s the day we finally get those bastards, arr! ‘m sure of it.” 

Azira gazed silently at Crowley’s eyes, sparkling excitedly like a human child’s, and sighed. “_ If you say so. _” 

“Forward!” The crew was chanting, each grabbing hold of an oar beneath the deck. Hungry, wet and cold and itching to take it out on someone else. The ship ploughed forward at a shocking speed, waters hastily parting way for the sharp keel. Bewilderment registered on the faces of the crew aboard the enemy ship. They watched, dumbly, as the gold bow of Crowley’s ship grow impossibly close, then all at once spear through their hull. The impact was astronomical. Wood flew up in splinters and nails tore away from planks, the hungry sea beneath snapping up the falling debris. Azira winced. Needless to say, his companion laughed maniacally. 

With the two ships now connected, the humans quickly realised that they could very much put their swords to good use. A full blown war ensued. Crowley watched the pandemonium from the helm with the rapt attention of one enjoying their favourite play. 

“Now _ this _ is a pirate fight,” he hummed with appreciation. “Just big, ugly sailors slugging it off. No morals, no hard feelings.” 

Azira watched as a man’s breeches fell to his ankles with the swish of an enemy’s knife. It was safe to say that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “_How elegant._ _It’s nothing short of a miracle really, that we get to stay up here and avoid whatever’s going on down there—Crowley. _**_Crowley_**_._”

The angel abruptly drew his blade to slash a rope tied to the railings. Then he swiftly caught its dangling end from mid-air, tested his weight on it and grinned at Azira. 

“Wahoooooooooo!” 

With a running start, Crowley leapt off the quarterdeck and sailed cleanly across the deck with the aid of the rope. Not many noticed him. Most were too busy punching jaws and pulling beards to notice a man swinging wildly by overhead. Even if the said man was making quite a bit of noise. Azira flew to roost on the mast instead and strived not to catch second-hand embarrassment. 

Crowley let go of the rope. With nothing short of an angel’s grace he landed on deck in a roll and shot to his feet with sword out and ready. The storm clouds above parted then, a circle of light beaming through to paint Crowley under a spotlight of fierce sun. His hair flared like wildfire. The water on his skin shone like diamonds. As if enthralled by a siren’s song, the pirates slowed and stopped, collectively turning to stare. 

Azira decided not to mention that Crowley was holding the hilt the wrong way. 

“Yo-ho-ho.” Crowley slashed his blade. Fast, fierce, every cut slicing the air into perfect halves. The pirates scuttled away. “Your days of thievery are no more, so avast ye, buckos—I’ll give ye three seconds to surrender!” 

Not a single man moved a muscle. The rain continued hammering down in sheets. 

“One.” 

Eyes darkened. Fingers whitened around the hilts of trembling swords. 

“_ Two _.” 

Azira shifted on his feet. The tension in the air was as delectable as honey. 

“Three—”

The heel of Crowley’s boot slipped. He flailed, swinging his sword out blindly. All eyes followed the arc of the gleaming blade cleaving through the mast. A fine blade—Azira realised—being able to cut an inch through solid wood so easily. Getting it out, however, was a different story. 

Crowley stopped trying to pry his sword out from where it remained stubbornly stuck. 

“Whoo-eee.” He grinned sheepishly. “Bit wet today, isn’t it?”

The pirates were not the slightest bit impressed. 

“‘e’s a bloody landlubber!” 

“Aye!” 

“Blow the man down!” 

Currently, all the bloodlust on the two ships were no longer trained on each other. Rather, it had become quite fixated on one very confused red-haired angel. Crowley held up his hands, backing up until he hit the mast with nervous laughter. 

“Err. Ermm—watch the coat, watch the coat!” He cried in outrage when the tip of a cutlass nicked a thread near his pocket. “My life might be cheap, but this beauty sure isn’t.” 

The ring of swords only advanced further as if aggravated. A man made it as far as raising a blunderbuss at Crowley’s temple, and the angel stiffened at the cool contact of metal against bare skin. Gold eyes narrowed. They slid sideways lazily to offer the man a glance, daring him to pull the trigger. 

The man gulped. His defences dropped for just a second. It was long enough.

Azira swept down from the top of the masts, landing in a ragged pounce upon the man’s back. He was knocked onto the deck face-first, yowling in pain and fury as Azira wrenched both arms behind his back. Those cries didn’t last long. He shut up fully when a polished blade pressed up against the soft skin of his neck, and did not move away. 

“Harm a single hair on his head,” Azira growled at the bewildered crowd encircling them. “And I _ will _ slit your throat.” 

Crowley’s eyes were very wide. His lips were parted, shaping the sound of his name. 

“You heard the man. Will you surrender, or shall I have the great pleasure of staining these waters red?” 

The pirates shuffled uneasily on their feet. Their choice was clear. 

—

Gulls cried as they soared overhead past the Carribean port. Azira perched on a piling, studying the gentle swoops of their streamlined bodies. In his palm he tossed an apple, up and down, up and down. 

When he caught it within his grasp flawlessly, Crowley appeared beside him. 

“That was fun. Nice acrobatics, by the way. Been doing it often?”

Azira shrugged. He took a bite of the apple and its white flesh snapped crisply between his teeth. “All part of the job, my dear.” 

“Right. Job. Right.” There was a pause. Then in a hopeful tone Crowley added, “Drinks on me?” 

The sound of the ocean answered for him. Azira did not look at Crowley. He kept his gaze steady on the horizon, a fine, almost indistinguishable line between the blue sky and the even bluer sea. Close as they might be, the two can never mix. They were at opposite ends of the world after all, even if that hardly seemed the case. He wondered if it was right desiring an angel’s companionship, much less an archangel’s, and much less Crowley’s. If heaven ever realised he was conversing with a demon…

“Better not,” Azira said offhandedly. “Though, it was good we collaborated for this task. Both parties benefit—you get the outlaws, and I get the gold. Our respective Head Offices would be very pleased indeed.” 

Crowley made a face. He sighed and leaned against the rope railing, staring glumly down at the beach where two ships were brought to shore. The pirates have already been taken care of. Chained at the wrists and loaded onto the back of carts, they are to be trialled and sentenced for acts of nefarious crimes. Meanwhile, their stolen goods will not be returned. A small demonic intervention was enough to ensure they would end up in Azira’s hands. 

“Precisely. All the more reason to celebrate,” Crowley perked. He whirled back to pluck the apple from Azira’s hand, biting into it noisily. “Come onnnnn. It’ll just be a mug or two.”

“Or seventeen,” Azira murmured. “Listen—Crowley. I have to be getting on.” 

If he’d known how much those words would make his friend wilt, he wouldn’t have said them in the first place. 

“Oh.” Crowley bit his lip. 

“My assignment can’t be delayed any longer,” said Azira, softening. “Terribly sorry, my dear. There’s always a next time.” 

He threw his hands up. “That’s what you said thirty years ago!” 

“Did I? Hah, I must be getting old—”

“Zira. Are you avoiding me?”

No strength in the world could manage to hold Crowley’s piercing gaze. Azira glanced away hurriedly. “Avoiding? Why would I do that? Do I not aspire to thwart the blessings of my enemy at every turn?” 

“I wouldn’t know about that.” Crowley sighed through his nose. He pinched the bridge of it, glaring at the ground as if tormented by a massive headache. Azira wanted to reach out to him. Put a hand on his shoulder, ease the strain there, tell him it was alright. 

But that would be a lie, and lying was still something Azira struggled with. 

“Well then.” Crowley cleared his throat, stepping away. A shiver racked through Azira as if the full force of winter had suddenly just hit him. “See you around, I suppose.” 

“Y—yes. Right.” He consciously straightened his neckerchief. “Best of luck to your assignment.” 

Crowley walked away without a backward glance. He lifted a hand. “Right back at you.” 

The roar of the ocean swelled in Azira’s ears. He shut his eyes, saw the dwindling of flames behind his closed eyelids. When the pain subsided and he looked back at the path Crowley had gone, there was no one there.

Azira drew his necklace out from where it was safely tucked under the folds of his coat. The vane of the gold feather ruffled under his caressing touches, as soft as the day Crowley had given it to him.

“Be safe, my dear.” He brought the feather up to his lips and stilled, almost in silent prayer. 

—

As much as Crowley would have loved to strut into Heaven with his full pirate outfit on, he decided against it in the end. There was still some degree of formality required when reporting to your office, and he wasn’t so confident in overstepping too many boundaries. Not when he had Gabriel to answer to. He was the kind of brother that everyone had to be a little afraid of, especially if you were the oddity of the bunch who despised family customs. 

He peeled off his leather coat regretfully, smoothing out the wrinkles in his button-up with a small miracle. Gabriel admonished him for doing this once, but soon realised it was a better alternative than having Crowley come in with his shirt unironed, buttons half undone to expose his chest and his bed hair poking out in odd angles. To say the least, the angels were scandalised. 

Crowley sighed as he looped a beige ribbon under his stiff white collar, securing it into a loose knot. He winced as he forced a comb through his unruly locks, wishing someone could do it for him instead. Someone with tender hands, fleeting touches like velvet and a warm smile. Someone like…

He drew his necklace out and stared at the tri-coloured feather in the mirror, noticed the fondness that swirled in his eyes like molten gold. A flash of pain seized his chest. He willed it away, distracted himself with tying up his hair to ignore the small but biting aftershocks of pain. He was an angel. Azira was a demon. Right from the start, it was never meant to be. 

If Azira could realise that, then why couldn’t he?

“Mother.” He closed his eyes. “Is it so wrong to love and be loved?”

But of course, no one answered. 

When he next reopened his eyes, every trace of luxurious gold and bronze of his room’s fine furnishing had been painted over by cold walls of pristine white. He could smell the lavender incense no longer. Suddenly having nothing to work with, his nose prickled. It always did smell so surgical in here. 

“Raphael. You’re late.”

Crowley squared his shoulders, then whirled back with the brightest smile he could muster. “Gabeeeee! Thanks so much for the abrupt summon. What if I had no pants on?”

Gabriel’s brows twitched. The small group of angles behind him exchanged glances that were part confusion and part horror. 

“And why, pray tell, might you not be wearing pants?” Sandalphon inquired, with the distant interest of someone asking if it was raining out. 

“I’d spare you the details. Honestly, you won’t be able to handle it.” 

Gabriel cleared his throat. His violet eyes flashed. “Raphael. Your report?”

“Right, right.” He snapped his fingers and caught the crumpled pages out from mid-air. He leafed through them briefly. Any wine stains and bits of leaves that had somehow gotten stuck in between he miracled away. Must be the garden. He loved gardens. Couldn’t ever walk past one without appraising (sometimes glaring at) the plants within. 

“So, uh, I did what I was told, _ basically _.” He gestured vaguely. The angels did not give so much of a blink. Crowley sighed, linked his hands behind his back and recited flatly, “The assignment was successful. The pirates who have been terrorising the coastal waters of the Carribean have been apprehended and will now be punished accordingly for their crimes.”

That earned him a round of polite applause, plus a few enthusiastic nods. 

“Exemplary work, Raphael.” Gabriel smiled, if what appeared on his face could even be called a smile. “We know we can always trust you to do what you’re told.”

“Do what I’m told, yes,” murmured Crowley. 

“How goes thwarting the evil wiles of the demon Azira?”

Somehow, hearing his name spoken by any other lips other than Crowley’s own ignited a spark of indignation in him. “He’s under control, as usual. Nothing particular to report. Listen—if this is all, can I go now?”

He received another round of civil applause. Crowley thought about taking off his shoe to throw it at Sandalphon. 

“Eager to return to work, aren’t you?” Gabriel hummed. “We shan’t keep you any longer than necessary. Although, shall I request the governor to save a seat for you at the execution?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” A pause. He must have misheard. “Execu-_ what _ now?”

“The execution, of course.” Gabriel enunciated crisply. “You said it yourself—they are to be punished accordingly for their crimes.”

“Yes, punished, not _ slaughtered _!” 

“Surely they will take it in stride.” Gabriel shrugged, making a face that had ‘not my problem’ written all over it. “They’re no less merciful when dealing with their own insubordination. Ever heard of keelhauling?”

Tone pleading now, Crowley stole forward on impulse and snatched hold of Gabriel’s wrist. “They are only petty criminals. Many have done worse and gotten away with it, a death sentence for them is—“

“Raphael.” Gabriel pried his hand away gently. “It’s a policy decision, already approved by the higher-ups. You and I have no say in this.”

“But they’ll listen to you! They always do!”

“Come now. This is not the time or place for an outburst. The humans must be rubbing off on you.” 

Despite Gabriel’s offhand tone, there was a flash of finality in his eyes that had Crowley flinching away as if he had been struck. The sick swelled up in him, made it hard to breathe. 

“Right.” He rubbed his face, inhaling harshly. “S’cuse me.” 

He stormed off. The angels parted hastily to steer clear of his way. They must have noticed the burn marks on the floor left from his heels, and the furious golden glare in his blazing eyes. 

Gabriel watched his brother leave. He tucked his hands into his pockets. When the other angels glanced inquiringly at him, his shoulders lifted into the smallest of shrugs. 

———— 

Azira entered the throne room with his head held up high. He was all too aware of how the demons stopped to stare, whispering amongst themselves in hushed voices. He did not lower his head. 

“Lord Mammon.” Azira dropped onto his knees in greeting. “I have obtained the pirate’s fortune, as requested.”

Mammon swirled their wine glass idly. They wore a monstrous, beast-like corporation, with too many horns and teeth and leering eyes. Hundreds of coins clattered noisily to the ground when Mammon leaned into their palm. Their makeshift throne was erected from gold bars, coins and jewellery. The smallest movement would cause a shiny avalanche. 

“And everything’s all insideeee, I expect?” Mammon’s voice was a deep growl, demonic accent heavy and thick. They gestured towards the ornate chest Azira had brought in with him. 

The lock shattered with a snap of Azira’s fingers. Blinding gold caught the light of the chandelier, leaving dancing spots on the onyx walls when he lifted the lid. There were various gasps of disbelief and awe from around the room. 

“Not a penny out of place,” said Azira cooly. 

“Excellentttt,” Mammon hissed. A long forked tongue slithered from their reptilian jaws and sampled the tang of precious metals in the air. “You are bound for a promotion, demon Azira.”

“I am honoured, my lord.”

Mammon circled the treasure chest hungrily. Drool dripped from the corners of their jaws, leaving dark stains on the maroon carpet. They scooped a handful of coins and gems with a clawed hand. “How delectable. Pityyy it is not for me to keep.”

Azira frowned. “Pardon me, lord, but why would that be the case?”

“It is to be handed over to Upstairssss.” Mammon licked a gem from tip to base. “Archangel Gab...Gill...Gadreed will buy my gold, in exchange for a thousand soulssss.”

“Gabriel? What does _ he _ need the money for?”

Mammon offered an impassive shrug. They seem more interested in tasting a colourful assortment of gems. “Bribing more humans to become pirates, perhapssss. That’s how heaven’s wiping away the corrupted quickly, y’know, to cut down on paperwork and timeeeee.”

Azira’s blood grew cold. His hands curled into fists by his sides, and try as may, he could not hide his emotions. He wondered if Crowley knew about this. Oh Satan—what would he feel if he knew about this? 

Mammon lifted a scaly brow. “Want a ruby? I’m sure Archangel Garry won’t noticeeeee.”

“Thank you, but I must decline. The bounty belongs to you, my lord,” drawled Azira. Climbing up the corporate ladder wasn’t just about tempting souls and sowing evil. A demon had to boast a silver tongue, and Azira prided himself on the words he could use to spin others in the heart of his palms. 

It worked. Mammon’s eyes glinted in pleasure. They tossed a coin into their jaws and crunched noisily, waving a dismissive hand. “Alright. You can go nowwww. Good luck on thwarting the Archangel Rrrraphaelll.”

Azira bowed once more, before turning his back to leave. Unbeknownst to the other demons, his face was dark and the glow of his blue eyes were unaccountably irate. 

————

There was not much a petty worker could do in response to their bosses’ cruddy policy decisions. Unsurprisingly, wandering aimlessly down the streets led Azira to a bar by the sea, open windows bringing in the smell of saltwater. 

He was surprised to see a familiar face. Or rather, a familiar slump. 

Crowley was sprawled facedown across a table, hair dishevelled and a bottle still in hand. No less than a dozen bottles crowded around him. 

Azira glided to his side softly. It was likely Crowley could sense his approach. But he did not stir, even when Azira laid a hand on his shoulder and shook it gently. 

“Crowley.”

The archangel grunted. Exhausted, lost, miserable. 

“_ Crowley _.” 

He grunted again, this time letting out a begrudging hiss. Crowley swatted off Azira’s hand and struggled upright to his elbows. “Who—“

He stopped short. Swatted away the hair obscuring his face. The eyes that peered blearily up were red-rimmed and so very tired. “Zira…?”

“I’m here.” He sat down beside him. Crowley still stared blankly as if he were an alcohol-induced illusion. 

He grimaced. “Thought ya didn’t want—hic—to be around me.” 

“I never said that, dear boy.”

“You diddddd,” Crowley whined. His necklace was out from his wrinkled shirt and Azira tried not to dwell on the fact that Crowley was still clutching the feather there like a lifeline. “Don’t you want to be friends, Zira?”

This was the face of one aching to love and be loved. Such is the curse of a creature born of pure goodness. Azira stared at Crowley’s reddish eyes, from alcohol and tears, the slump in his shoulders, the downward twist at the corner of his chapped lips. Azira wanted nothing more than gather him up into his arms again, stroke his hair and whisper sweet assurances in his ear like that night so many years ago. 

But a line had to be drawn and for Crowley’s sake, he can’t ever cross it. 

“I already am your friend, dearest.” Azira tucked a strand of flaming hair behind his ear. 

“Then don’t leave me. Please.”

Azira’s chest tightened. “I...I can’t promise that, Crowley. We have to part ways eventually, travel where our assignments take us.” 

“Assignment...” Crowley sneered. His head hit the table with a concerning thump and he did not get back up. “Fuck those.”

“My dear, that sounds awfully like blasphemy to me.” 

“Walked past the town plaza recently, Zira?” 

“No. Was there something going on?”

Crowley was quiet for a long while. Enough for the sun to fully set beneath the horizon, the last rays of light slipping away into the oppressive darkness. Azira glanced around the bar, noted the unusually cheery expressions of the fishermen who had gathered for a small celebration. One made a face and stuck his tongue out, clutching at an imaginary noose around his neck. His companions roared with laughter. 

“Oh dear.” Azira realised, horror dawning upon him. 

“They were hung.” Crowley’s whisper was almost impossible to catch. “All of them.”

Such is the cruel nature of mankind, heaven, and hell. Grief tided over Azira then, fierce and strong, and he bent forward in his seat to cover Crowley’s hand with his. Crowley did not move away. Azira pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes. They stayed that way the entire night, hearts hollowing at the sounds of raucous laughter and joy bubbling about them. 

****   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for waiting ;_; so sorry for the slow updates. Been dealing with insomnia and looming exams and my sudden addiction with stardew valley, so writing just kinda disappeared from my schedule. Finished this tonight though! 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and all your kind comments ^^ they mean a lot to me!


	7. Paris, 1793

It was times like these when it became decisively clear—there was no wickedness in the world quite like humans. Terrifying, unstoppable, a passion that tears its way through the heart. Azira saw it as he passed massive crowds carrying heads on sticks, heard it as the falling of the blade in the guillotines. It stirred quite the ruckus downstairs. So much so that Azira’s new assignment was to observe and take notes.

Now with paper, parchment and reluctance, he followed a man through the gloomy cobblestone hallways of the Bastille. Azira had long tired of hearing screams echo from virtually every corner. He just wanted to piece together a half-decent report, throw it onto Beelzebub’s desk, and finally get to have a nice cup of tea at home. 

But considering the rate at which Jean Claude was rattling on, it was all just wishful thinking. 

“You are very lucky to soon witness the death of the nine hundred and ninety-ninth aristo by my own hands—”

“That so?” Azira asked distantly. There was something in the air making his nose itch. Angelic presence. Of course. He wondered if Gabriel had swooped in for a quick look-see, just to make sure God’s creations weren’t about to wipe each other out into certain oblivion. 

“—but the first angel.” 

The nib of Azira’s quill slipped. A bold smear of ink perfectly ruined the page of cursive handwriting. 

“_ Are _ angels aristos?” Jean Claude gave the thought only a brief minute. “Probably. I’ve seen them together in a painting once.”

He was getting a bad feeling about this. 

“Long red hair?” Azira gestured wildly. “Gold eyes? Snakey hips?”

“My word. Do you know each other?”

He pinched the tip of his nose and sighed. “Too well.”

Jean Claude’s bewildered face froze then, and would remain so until Azira waved off the spell. 

“Would you mind terribly if you held this for me?” He stuck the quill into Jean Claude’s unmoving hand, and folded frozen fingers over his stack of papers. “Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

Azira hurried down the corridors, calling out Crowley’s name. The candle flames in the sconces did not flicker even as he hurried past. There was no response. He blessed under his breath, pausing by a pillar to catch his breath. No need to panic—it wasn’t as if Crowley would actually discorporate. And then his mind conjured frightful images of the delight and savagery men would feel to get their hands on an angel, then Azira was running again. 

“Crowley!” 

His own desperate voice bounced back at him from the narrow walls. 

“Crowley, where are you?”

A dead end. Up and down flights of stairs that led him nowhere. 

“Are you alright?”

Dusty windows. Bloodstained cells, yawning emptily. Whips and chains laying discarded out in the open. Azira dreaded to see them entangled with gold feathers. 

“My dear, I can’t find you!”

Then impossibly, softly like a hushed whisper in the wind, came the feeble reply. “...Zira…?”

Azira chased down the sound of his voice. Fierce and steadfast like a bloodhound he leapt down stairs and burst through doors, keeping a chant repeating in his head like a fervent prayer. _ Please be safe. Please be safe. _

He almost tore the last door out of its hinges. “Crowley!”

The Archangel was kneeling in the light. Just a faint, murky ray through a lone window, but Crowley tipped his head towards it as if only he could feel its warmth. His hair was wildly loose. Tumbling to his shoulders, falling past it, coiling like tides of red by his feet. 

“Zira.” Crowley started. There were dark circles under his eyes. “Bloody hell, you scared me—”

“What the _ deuce _ are you doing locked up in the Bastille?” Azira demanded. He paused by the threshold to catch his breath, clothes rumpled and face flushed as if he had been running with the full circle of hell hot after his heels. 

Crowley shifted. The chains around his wrists and ankles hissed. He had to raise both hands to pull the hair out of his face. It looked terribly forlorn. “I was trying to stop them.”

“Stop them?”

“You see what it’s like out there! Big guillotines and heads on sticks and all the humans just chop, chopping everyone’s head off! Like _ animals _—no.” He paused, stifling a choked laugh. “Like humans.” 

Silence descended. Azira stepped into the cold cell, crossing over to rub Crowley’s shoulder gently. “You’re wearing white. You never wear white.” 

Crowley caught his hand. He stared down at it, gold leaking through his long eyelashes. Then he nuzzled his face into Azira’s palm. “Thought I had to be a proper angel for once. Obviously, no one liked that.”

The image of Crowley, white robes lifting and celestial energy radiating from his skin in a crowd of seething humans was jarring. How they must have lashed out, trying to stamp out that light of good will. It wasn’t their fault, really. All the humans have ever known in recent years were spite and cruelty. 

“Heaven told me not to intervene, but I just _ had _ to, you know?” He closed his eyes. “They’re killing each other, Zira. Innocents and sinners alike.” 

Azira stroked his hair gently. “Let them do what they see fit, my dear. There’s no way they will learn, otherwise.” 

“I don’t know what to do anymore. If they discorporate me, I’ll have my celestial butt kicked all the way back home. But maybe that’ll get my head on the right track, don’t you think—nggh?”

He spoke into Azira’s coat suddenly, for the demon had crushed him into a tight hug. 

“You can’t, Crowley!” He cried. 

“But—“

“Please. It has only ever been the two of us on earth. Don’t leave me alone.” The notion hurt too much to bear. He ducked his head and held his breath, burying his face into the archangel’s hair. “_ Please _.” 

Hands stroked the length of his back gently. 

“Thought you were avoiding me.”

“I told you already,” Azira murmured feebly. “I could never.” 

“You’re always like this, you know.” Crowley pulled back fractionally, just to give him a withering look. “You talk to me like I hung the stars in your sky, and then you disappear for hundreds of years without so much of a pip. I don’t get it, Zira. I try to find you, try to call you back, but you’re always so far away! It’s like we only ever meet when there’sss trouble, y’know?”

His breath hitched in his throat. It hurt. It really did. “I know.”

Crowley hissed. “Then—”

“We should keep our distance. You are an archangel, I am a demon, we’re hereditary enemies!”

He threw up his hands. The chains rattled, and continued to as Crowley rubbed his temples. “Says who?”

“Says them!” Azira nearly shouted. “We—we’re on different sides, Crowley. You’re fundamentally good and I will be the opposite of everything you’ll ever be. If you’re the last good thing on earth, then I…” He drew a long, ragged breath. “I can’t risk anything happening to you.”

Silence. He was only vaguely aware that time still froze, that only the two of them still circled around the other in this unmoving plane. 

“What—” Crowley inhaled deeply. “—the _ fuck _, Zira?”

He was being shoved backwards before he could have the chance to respond. Crowley was on his feet, shoulders squared, a fleeting vision in the light betraying the flaring of his golden wings from his back. If Azira should ever fear being smote to unholy bits by an angel, that time is likely now.

Azira backed away until he hit an adjacent wall. Crowley did not stop advancing and the scowl on his face was ever so menacing. His hands fumbled nervously together. He twisted the silver ring around his pinky. “Um. Err. My dear?”

His eyes widened when a hand slammed into the wall beside his head. Suddenly, maddeningly, he could count the inches between their faces and trace the strands of gold in the archangel’s blazing eyes. 

“You are _ not _ responsible for me, Azira,” Crowley hissed. “And have you ever maybe considered that I like being around you?”

“I…”

“There’s no should or shouldn’t. There’s only what I want, and what you want. I _ want _ to be your friend, Zira, and if heaven kicks me out or if mummy dearest decides to shove me into a pool of boiling sulfur for that, it won’t be your fault because it is _ my _ choice!”

Heat rose from the base of his neck all the way to his face. Azira stole forward, seizing fistfuls of Crowley’s collar and nearly lifted him up in the process. Crowley’s eyes widened. 

“How can you say that, you stupid—bad—argh, _ angel _! Am I supposed to watch you Fall because of me? How can I still look at you knowing that I’m the reason your family has forsaken you?”

“Family.” Crowley’s laugh was full of mirth. “They’ve always despised me, Zira. You don’t even know.”

Azira’s grip loosened. Crowley cleared his throat and smoothed out his robes when he left him go. “What?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I expect hell’s not a very big fan of you either.”

“I’ll have you know that I am quite obsequious to my superiors and they appreciate me for it.” Azira huffed, straightening his collar primly. He wilted a moment later. “But as for the rest of hell...well. It’s exactly as how you describe it.”

A delighted smirk was rapidly spreading across Crowley’s face. “See? We’re the same. Heaven’s worst angel and hell’s nicest demon. Who do we even have if it’s not each other?”

Azira rubbed his head. Crowley and those infernally convincing words of his; he would always be driven up the wall and it was infuriating how he never minded, every _ single _ time. 

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighed. 

Crowley snuck up behind his back, gleefully draping himself over his shoulders like a warm shawl. “What do you say to some crepes?”

“Dressed like that?” Azira couldn’t hide a smile as he glanced at his too-celestial robes. 

He rolled his eyes. “Shuuuutt uppp.” 

Azira shrugged off his ebony coat. He deftly avoided Crowley’s gaze as he wrapped it around his wiry frame. Crowley felt the lapels and the silver buttons almost in wonderment. He seemed to shrink under the weight of the coat and curl into himself, much like a cat sinking into particularly a warm cushion. 

“Don’t you just look dashing in black, my dear.” 

Crowley scowled. The dust of pink on his cheeks stood up starkly from his porcelain face. “Shuttttttt up.”

————

“Quick question.” Crowley cocked a brow when they materialised outside a street in Soho, in front of a mahogany door. “Are we going for crepes or are you taking me to bed?”

Azira swatted his head crossly. “_ Crowley _!”

“Geez, learn to take a joke will you? No but seriously. Why are we at your house?” 

And more importantly, why was his heart beating so damn fast?

“I’ll cook.” The door opened for them with a snap of his fingers. Azira gestured for him to enter. “You make yourself at home.” 

Deep down, Crowley was relieved. The past few days hadn’t exactly been the kindest. He wasn’t sure if he was up to dining at a restaurant crowded with humans, when they were the exact same species that had manhandled him into a locked cell. His ankles and wrists were still raw from the rigid chains. He nursed the stinging ring of red around his wrist absently as he ascended the stairs. Azira was only inches away behind him and if Crowley wasn’t careful, he’d notice his breath tickling his neck. 

He rubbed his face. A good scrub-down and a strong glass of _ something _ would be nice.

“Water closet’s on the right,” said Azira as if reading his mind. “And here.” He passed him a full bottle of Chardonnay. 

Crowley couldn’t hold back the ridiculous smile on his face. Shut up; he wasn’t a sap. Not in the slightest. “Cool. Thanks.”

Azira’s answering smile nearly drove him insane. It was fond and affectionate and full of the L-word that Crowley could feel very acutely. Stupid angels and their love radars. He wished it was something he could flip on and off like the halo on his head. 

“Right. Um.” He retreated to the water closet hurriedly and shut away Azira’s questioning gaze in the drawing room. He exhaled heavily, pressing his back against the closed door. “Lord give me strength.”

The voice that spoke through the door made him jump. “No blasphemy in the house, dear.”

He got undressed. Filled the claw-footed tub to the brim with warm water, and scrubbed his skin raw with a sponge and half a bottle of soap. Washed it all away—the grime and shame from days spent alone in the Bastille, the rust from the chains. 

And don’t get him started on his hair. He had better luck convincing Gabriel that donning a powdered wig to a meeting was a good idea than trying to rinse out the dust in his tangled locks. He tried a comb, then two combs, even three all at once, but they all snapped before he could even try and put it to good use. A pulse throbbed in his temple. 

“Gah stupid, _ stupid _—” Still soaking wet, he marched furiously to the sink and scowled at his reflection in the ornate mirror. Ever such a mess, wasn’t he? He mused his hip-long hair with distaste, tugged at its roots and winced, then felt the prickly stubble on his chin. After a complentative moment, he found a pair of scissors and shaver behind the mirror as expected. He got to work. 

With every deafening snip of the scissors’ blades, the bonds chaining him to his past seemed to crumble. 

_ I am the Archangel of Healing, Raphael. _

His hair fell in locks. 

_ Heaven’s will is absolute. _

He passed the hair clipper round the arc of his ears. 

_ They will decide everything I am, every decision I make. _

The edge of the razor glided along the length of his jaw. 

_ “Raphael,” Gabriel told him once, “There are the humans, the demons, and us. One day, only one side will emerge victorious. You know which it is.” _

Crowley cupped a handful of running water and splashed it through his hair, washing out the errant strands. 

“_ Armageddon will soon arrive and we have to win it, whatever the cost. You understand why, don’t you little brother?” _

He miracled the auburn mess in the sink away with a wave of his hand. There was already a stack of towels folded on a rack for him. No clothes. Crowley smiled. Azira was probably trying to be on the safe side by not assuming his haphazard fashion senses. As considerate as ever, that strange demon. 

He mused the towel through his hair and shrugged on a fresh linen shirt (miracled into existence). He stuffed its hem into the too-tight waistband of his pine breeches (likewise), and thread a belt through the loops to fasten it in place. For the finishing touch, he popped open the first few buttons to bring his necklace into open view. The blacks and blues and whites of Azira’s feather stood out starkly from the solid monochrome of his grey shirt. 

Crowley was going to change. He was an angel, heaven was his home and yet earth was where he belonged. He would not let some ineffable plan mess it all up; even if it’s written in the stars and the laws of the universe by Mother herself. He always wondered if she was watching. What might she think? Will she ever tire of him, and when will that be?

“Mother.” He put his hands together and apologised. “Wherever you are, I’m going to start doing what I think is right. Fingers crossed.” 

Outside the window, the stars continued to twinkle. It was impossible to tell if they were ever listening. 

————

Crowley left the towel around his neck as he wandered through Azira’s house. He had a feeling that it must be quite spacious if not for all the clutter, but it was a type of organised chaos that gave the place a cozy, lived-in feel. It was very brown. The floor was a polished mahogany that matched the Victorian furniture. The tall walls were smooth dark panelled wood. And there were books, books everywhere—in the shelves and stacked on tables and stacked to _ be _tables, on the floor and virtually in every nook and cranny that provided even a tiny sliver of space. He was careful not to step on or knock into anything. It might just trigger an avalanche of books that would most certainly bury him alive. 

There was a faint smell of smoke in the air. Crowley followed it to a library (as if the rest of the house wasn’t already one), and stopped short by the threshold. 

Azira had clearly made himself comfortable. His waistcoat hung unbuttoned by his sides, and his sleeves were folded to his elbows. His collar was open. _ Very _ open. Well, not as open as Crowley’s, but going by Azira’s standards it was practically indecent. Crowley almost combusted on the spot. 

Azira didn’t look up from his book. Instead, he patted the spot on the tartan sofa next to him. With two fingers, he extracted the cigar from his mouth, turned a page, and gnashed it back between his teeth. 

Crowley swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He sat down gingerly. The sofa sank under his weight. It was warm here, by the coffee table and in front of the black marble fireplace. Crowley lost himself in the calm flickers of the orange flames. 

“Hungry?” Azira prompted, lowering his book. The moment his eyes fell on him, he froze. 

Crowley rubbed his neck nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed without the usual thick curtain of his hair. 

“Oh. Crowley, you…” he was at a loss for words. The book fell forgotten onto his lap, and Azira raised a tentative hand. “May I?”

He nodded stiffly. 

Azira reached for him gently. Curiously felt the sweep of his fringe, the short hairs at the back of his neck. Every touch left a trail of fire on his skin. He had to clutch his own knees to avoid a deep shudder. 

“You look wonderful,” said Azira finally, drawing away. A pang shot through his heart at the sudden loss of contact. Crowley rubbed his face roughly. 

“Whatever. Got any wine?”

Azira poured a generous glass for him. The light of the fireplace swirled thick and gold within the dark Chardonnay. “As much as you like.”

Crowley’s hand shook when he took the glass. Their fingers brushed, just for a moment, but it was enough to send a jolt through him. With a fist clenched on his knee he gulped down the wine like a dying man, decidedly not looking anywhere near Azira’s direction. 

“And here.” A plate was offered to him. “I hope you’re hungry.”

He was fucking starving. Not in the way that could be satiated with food though, no matter how good the crepes looked. He cleared his throat. With the edge of his fork he cut out a small triangle and put it to his mouth. The warm sweetness overwhelmed his tongue. 

He chewed thoughtfully. “‘s not bad.”

“Really?” Azira beamed. “Want some more? I made a lot. The secret is all in the whisking. And the toppings too, of course. Powdered sugar, few slices of fruits, and ooh, it goes wonderfully with ice-cream too…”

“Ice-cream?” Crowley said distantly. He was too obsessed with the way Azira’s hands waved about as he talked, as if performing some kind of mesmerising dance on their own. 

“You haven’t heard of it? Oh, you simply must!” He shot to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen. Crowley used his time alone to catch a few deep breaths. But all too soon Azira returned, buzzing with excitement, and sat down beside Crowley a lot closer than he did before. There was a cylindrical tub in his hands covered in a thin layer of frost. 

“It’s sublime, my dear.” Azira cracked open the lid. He coaxed the tip of the spoon into the frozen cream and dug up a mouthful, putting it to his lips. His eyes fluttered shut. “_ Mmm _.”

Crowley’s heart pounded in his ears.

“Care for a taste?” Azira’s half-lidded eyes were sunlight passing through sapphires. He held the spoon out to him. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Crowley leaned closer. Took hold of the spoon, then slid his hand down onto Azira’s wrist. The demon’s eyes widened. 

“Crowley—“

Too late. He was nothing but pure impulse, the way stars implode on the slightest whims, a supernova of light and sheer colours that wove themselves into the void of space itself. Crowley stole forward and pressed his mouth against Azira’s, pushing him back in his haste. His lips parted open in shock. Crowley only sank deeper, crawling onto his lap, reaching back to cage Azira’s neck between his arms. 

It was hot and damp, maddeningly sweet. It tasted like orange blossom mixed with the tang of liquor and something wholly divine. Azira made a sound deep in his throat and Crowley sought to kiss it into silence, running his hands through his short curls, tugging them by their roots. 

Crowley pulled back and licked his lips. Azira stared at him dazedly, blinking as slowly as one trapped in a dream. 

“‘s not bad.” 

“What is?” Azira wandered a hand up Crowley’s thigh, leaning hungrily close.

“Your stupid ice-cream.”

His smile was wondrously devilish. “Have another taste.”

Their lips met again. Crowley let himself be pushed down flat against the sofa, head propped against the armrest. Hands wandered up his shirt and ran over every inch of skin, lighting him aflame. He leaned eagerly into every touch, every fleeting caress, aching to be felt from tip to toe. 

Lips moved against his neck. “This isn’t right.”

Crowley grunted and dug his nails into Azira’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Crowley.” Azira pulled away suddenly, staring down at him with searing disapproval. “Is that what you say to a demon tempting you into lust?”

He felt nothing but fondness radiating from the centre of his chest. He smiled softly. “I love you.”

Azira blinked as if he’d been slapped. “Oh. No, Crowley, you…” he sighed against his forehead. Then the comforting weight above him drew away. Crowley sat up on his elbows, staring dejectedly—and just a little indignantly—at Azira who sat hunched over with his head in his hands. 

“Zira,” he groaned. “What—”

“I’m sorry.” 

The finality in his voice roused him. It dispersed the haze in his mind like mist before sunrise. Instead of heat now there was a chilling cold, akin to freezing water being dumped down his back. His arms twisted around his chest if only to hold himself from the waves of hurt that crashed endlessly into him. 

“We can’t do this,” said Azira pleadingly. “You understand why, don’t you, dear boy?” 

Crowley bit the edge of his lip. His nails left crescents in his own skin, but whatever bodily pain he experienced could not surpass what toiled inside. He stumbled to his feet unsteadily. “A’ight. I get it.” 

“Crowley…” 

“No, I get it!” He flinched away before Azira could touch him. “Angel, demon. Hereditary enemies. Got it.” 

The forlorn look in Azira’s eyes ripped him further apart. He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to leave. 

“Crowley. _ Crowley _! Where are you going?” 

He didn’t turn back until he was out of the main door. The darkness out here was whole and complete, and its chill embraced him readily. The long exhale he let out from his lungs eased from his lips as a puff of white mist. 

“Off,” he said vaguely, to Azira, to the night, to himself. It didn’t matter where he was headed. The darkness would look the same everywhere. 

Azira clung onto the threshold as if it were his only lifeline. He spoke to the ground. “You could stay.” 

Every breath he took hurt from the inside out. 

“Better not,” he answered truthfully, knowing it was best for both of them.

Azira’s shoulders sagged. From relief, from despair. He watched Crowley walk away. As always, he didn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my exams so now I shall write like the devil (hopefully)  
Stay tuned for more angst :3c


	8. 1862 - St James park

There was something different about Crowley. It became immediately apparent as Azira neared the waterside where the archangel stood stiffly. He did not turn at the sound of approach, merely tightened his hold on his onyx cane. His face was infuriatingly unreadable. What little emotion left in his eyes was hidden behind black shades. 

Azira tried not to clam up. He took off his top hat and miracled some bread to toss towards the ducks. Anything to distract himself from the freezing aura around Crowley’s rigid form, and whether or not it was his fault for the sudden unbridgeable distance between them. Azira still felt it—the thrill of Crowley’s frantic touches, the hot slide of their lips against each other’s, the restlessness that had consumed him once they were apart. He was haunted by the things they could have done; the things they did not do. It was maddening. Azira wondered if Crowley lost sleep over this like he did, wondered if he too sometimes couldn’t stop pacing, and longing and  _ missing _ . 

Crowley inhaled sharply. Azira flinched and disguised it as a shiver from the cold. His hand froze midair. The ducks swarming in the water all quacked unhappily at the sudden cessation of their bread buffet. 

“Look, I’ve been thinking.”

_ Tell me that you want me. Tell me we’re not a mistake, even if I can’t believe it myself.  _

“What if it all goes wrong? We have a lot in common, you and me. Heaven’s worst angel and hell’s nicest demon.” 

The memory hurt, as did what happened after. Crowley seemed to share his thoughts. His brows furrowed enough for Azira to lower his eyes in guilt. He sighed. Tossed more bread. At least the ducks were enjoying themselves. “It’s hard to see that when one of us has Fallen, my dear.”

“You didn’t really Fall,” Crowley murmured. “Just...sauntered vaguely downwards.”

Azira briefly drifted back to the memory of his wings aflame. His feathers had burned so hot they seared permanently black, and yet the confusion and terror during the endless plummet almost dulled the pain. He had prayed, apologised, even begged for forgiveness. If only he had realised it was futile. Maybe it would have hurt less when he stared up at the sky with broken wings and finally realised that nobody will come to his aid ever again. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” Azira mused. 

“I need a favour.”

“That’s what our Arrangement is for, Crowley.” 

“No, this is something else. For if it all goes pear-shaped.”

Azira frowned. He dusted his hat of the remaining crumbs (let the ducks fight over it themselves) and sat it neatly back atop his head. “I happen to like pears.”

Crowley hadn’t averted his gaze from the lake. “I need insurance, Zira. Listen. Does your flaming sword still burn with heavenly fire?”

“No. Switched to hellfire after I Fell.” He didn’t mention how he found that out. Long story short, using it on himself hadn’t worked at all like he expected it to. Perhaps it was a sign that he still needed to live. Azira didn’t try a second time. 

“Good.”

A gloved hand offered a folded slip to him. Azira stared at it incredulously. Oh, so they were passing secret notes now? 

“I wrote it down. Walls have ears.” 

Crowley shifted when Azira unfolded it, obviously nervous. “Trees have ears. Ducks have ears.  _ Do _ ducks have ears? Must be. That’s how they hear other ducks—”

“Out of the question!” Azira hissed, almost crumpling the note in his fist.  _ The flaming sword _ , it read. “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!”

The archangel scowled. “That’s not what I want it for.”

“What else, then? Do you plan to use the sword against the other angels? Rebel against heaven?”

Crowley was silent.

“They will destroy you! You may be an archangel, Crowley, but you don’t stand a chance against the rest of them. No.  _ No _ .” He shook his head severely. “It’s bad enough if they find out we’ve been fraternising. You don’t have to make things worse—“

“Fraternising?”

“Or whatever you wish to call it!” 

Crowley stabbed the tip of his cane into the dirt. “It’s honestly not that special, Zira. I have plenty of other people to  _ fraternise _ with.” He spat. “I don’t need you.”

He always dreaded hearing those words from Crowley. It was nothing short than a miracle after all, that an archangel like him would ever be willing to converse with one of the Fallen. Unlovable, unforgivable beings. Perhaps a part of Azira always suspected that Crowley was dragging himself down in some form just to keep this fiasco of a friendship between them. It hurt. It burned him from the inside out. And yet all he felt now was pure irritation, as if Crowley was a fool for saying something so obvious to his face and Azira was daft enough to stick around to hear it. 

“And the feeling is mutual!” He flung the note into the water. The ducks swarmed towards it, mistaking it for an extra treat. Azira snapped his fingers so it burst into flames before any fowl could get close. “Obviously,” he added, just to make things clear.

“Obviously,” Crowley mimicked. 

“Yes, and don’t follow me!” Azira stabbed a finger indignantly his way before storming off, fingers tight around the rim of his hat. Preposterous. To think that Crowley thought he’d hand over a weapon of mass destruction to him, the archangel of healing! How base did Crowley think he was? It would be a lie if Azira said he’d never hoped that he would see him differently, as something more virtuous than a demon. Now he didn’t know what to think. 

So this was what Crowley felt that night when he left Azira behind in his wake. The awful thought almost halted him in his tracks. He forced himself to keep walking.lDon't look back. Crowley never does. You don't have to, either. 

He was incensed enough not to head back home immediately. Instead, he took his time, strolling down streets both quiet and crowded and stopping at every other small bakery to browse through their assortment of pastries. Fine. He’d have a cake or two. There wasn’t anything that cake couldn’t fix. 

He took the window seat. The view outside was lovely. Carriages rattled down the road, gentlemen strutted with arms linked with their bashful counterparts and London was enjoying a rare day of clear sunshine. Quiet moments like these reminded Azira why he adored earth so much; life carried on. In just a couple more decades, times would change again and force Azira to change along with it (he’d rather not). Yet some things were quite the same in the end. The humans continued to be as happy as they can be, the coffee retained its rich divinity, and their delightful little cakes never failed to bring a smile to his face. 

His smile faded when his eyes inevitably landed on the empty seat opposite him. Crowley’s absence, as usual, was unbearably loud. When he was around he was all snark laughter and bright colours and a fiery passion that burned steady in Azira’s chest. It ached whenever that fire grew cold. It made him fantasise about bringing Crowley close, crushing him to his chest till no space remained, taking in his scent and warmth to rekindle what little warmth left in his demonic heart. He wanted Crowley. Wanted to feel all his sharp edges and protect the fragility that secretly hid beneath. His palms burned at the thought of running through Crowley’s hair, of stroking his jaw and thumbing his cheek—

Azira’s cup rattled when he set it down too forcefully. Stares came from all around. He rose sheepishly to his feet. 

“S’cuse me.” He made sure to tip extra. But only in small change. He needed to keep up his long string of tiny inconveniences to make up for his lack of proper demonic activity. Whenever Head Office asked, he put on his most diabolical face and claimed that ‘a plan’s well in the making’. It never was. Well, if he was desperate enough, he could always resort to gluing coins to the sidewalk. 

With nowhere else to go, he went home. Maybe a good book and Darjeeling would lift his spirits. Forget about his source of frustration and guilt that was perpetually Crowley-shaped, which tasted of burnt cinnamon and red wine. So he got himself changed. Donned his favourite navy vest, fixed his collar and sleeves till they were impeccable and sat up all prim and proper in his armchair. The fireplace was up and running. He had a dozen stacks of books piled around. Now this should keep him properly occupied for a couple of months. No more thinking about angels or their infuriatingly beautiful corporations—

His doorbell rang. Which was annoying, because he always made sure it wouldn’t work. Just for appearances sake; its brass sheen really complimented the dark wood of his door. 

“Just a moment,” he feigned enthusiasm. What means were good for driving away a pesky visitor? Small fire to their pants? A pipe explosion outside that would drench them from head to toe? Perhaps the classic ‘you  _ dare _ enter the lair of a demon’ welcome. He’d stopped doing that after realising that people fainting on your doorstep was really quite inconvenient. 

He opened the door. 

“Azira—” Crowley started. 

He closed the door. But a hand shot out to stop it in place. 

“Crowley!” Azira fumed, trying (and failing) to wrestle with angelic strength. “I told you not to follow me!”

“I know.” 

His voice was small. Broken. Almost impossible to hear. Heart wrenching, hands fumbling, Azira swung the door open and looked the archangel in the eye. 

“If you’ve come for the flaming sword, I don’t have it.”

“You said you gave it away.” 

Those were words from a very long time ago. Azira felt his brows rise. He hugged his arms to his chest. “You remember.”

“Course I did.” Crowley looked like a vase milliseconds from shattering apart. “All this time, you’ve never went looking for it?”

“Why would I?”

“Well…” He knew what Crowley wanted to say.  _ Because it was yours. Because it’s the last link between you and heaven—how could you give it up? _

“I don’t have it,” Azira reaffirmed. He tried to be careful. Softly, gently, as if trying not to blow down a tower of cards. One wrong word and Azira had the sense that Crowley would disappear. It’d take centuries for him to show his face again. “And I don’t plan on getting it back. I’m sorry, dear boy. If it had been anything else, I would’ve tried to help.”

“S’fine.” Crowley’s face suggested anything but. “Alright. Cool. Erm, see you.” 

He turned to leave, but froze when Azira caught hold of his wrist. 

“So is there still anything?”

The way Crowley raked his eyes over him threatened to set him alight in several places at once. His palm grew sweaty. He had half a mind to let go before it made things too uncomfortable. 

“Anything I can um…” Azira cleared his throat. Shuffled on the spot. Fiddled with his rings whenever he found himself too afraid to ask for something. “Still help with?”

Crowley broke. Would’ve fallen onto his knees there and then if Azira had not swooped forward to catch him. Arms immediately wound tight around the back of his neck. From the way they latched on, hungry and fierce, it became clear that Crowley did not plan on letting go anytime soon. So Azira relented. Let himself be shoved back into his apartment and flat on the sofa. Crowley crouched over him like a prowling leopard. Molten fire swirled within his eyes. Inside them was rash desire and blind longing; barely a trace of himself remained. 

Azira’s eyes grew half-lidded. He reached up to softly stroke the side of Crowley’s face.

“Are you alright?”

The gentle question seemed to make Crowley regain his senses. His face paled immediately, and he drew away faster than Azira could rein him back. Dazed and a little disappointed, Azira sat up and stared blearily at his sulking form. 

“No, m’not. Not in the slightest.” A deep shudder ran through Crowley. His face was in his hands and his back was bent like a crescent moon. “What’re we gonna do, Zira? Armageddon is coming and without your flaming sword we’ve just lost our one shot at preventing the actual fucking end of the world!”

Azira came close. Rubbed soothing circles up and down Crowley’s back. “It’s still years away, dear. Centuries even. And we all knew it was coming right from the start. God’s ineffable plan, remember?”

“But I didn’t think I would come to love earth this  _ much _ ,” he lamented. “And...and you.”

His breath hitched in his throat. “What…”

“After the Apocalypse, we won’t ever get to see each other again. If Heaven wins? Bam! Angels bloody everywhere you look and an eternity of Sound of Music. Or if Hell wins? I’d think your lot would love our feathery asses all roasted over the great pit. The dying part I don’t mind, Zira, but I really don’t want to go anywhere that you aren’t, and—” Crowley sucked in a hissing breath between clenched teeth. He rubbed his face roughly. “No. Sorry. ‘m just making a bigger mess of things, aren’t I? You probably don’t wanna hear my stupid rambles.”

Azira was glad for the flash of courage that allowed him to wrap Crowley into his arms. He hummed under his breath; a piano piece he’d heard on the gramophone recently. It was nowhere near celestial harmonies but he hoped it would suffice. So he hummed and held Crowley, until his breaths quietened, until the tension eased entirely out of him. 

“How long have you been thinking about this on your own?”

Fingers dug into his arm. Crowley nuzzled into the warmth of Azira’s shoulder and he held back a shiver. 

“Dunno. Since the last time we met, maybe. You really got me thinking about the ‘heaven and hell, hereditary enemies’ bit.”

“It wasn’t my intention at all to make you worry like this.” Azira sighed. He played with the short strands of hair on the back of Crowley’s neck. “I was just...afraid.”

Crowley sighed. Azira could feel it resonate through his chest. “Hmm?”

“You know I’ll never forgive myself if I made you Fall.”

The weight in his lap shifted. “Zira. No, Zira.” Azira protested feebly, refusing to meet his eyes. But a hand gently held his face as if to stop him from running into the blind darkness of his own mind. “Look at me.”

The intensity of Crowley’s gaze was too much to bear. Before his head could hang any lower, lips tackled his own and Azira lifted his head up in shock. 

“Nothing wrong with mmph—this.” Crowley hungrily parted his mouth wide open, tongue entangling with his. 

“Or this.” He crawled farther up Azira’s lap and pinned him immobile between the cage of his thighs. Laid his hands upon on his shoulders. Planted a kiss, long and slow on his temple. “Or this.”

“Crowley…” 

“Know why? It’s love. All of it.” He scooped up Azira’s trembling palm and kissed his knuckles. “What sort of angel would I be if I were to be against it?”

Azira groaned. Clutched Crowley by his midriff, wishing that for just once in his life he could be allowed to do what he wanted. “It’s a sin.”

“Nooo.” Crowley let himself sink fully into Azira’s embrace, smiling when their lips met again. “It’s sweet innocence.”

The dam broke. It was as if some form of chain around his neck had finally shackled, and there was no soaring freedom greater than in the moment Azira stood and swept Crowley up into his arms. Crowley was kissing him frantically and desperately, and his restless haste made Azira remember how all of this started in the first place. 

“My dear—“

“Sshhhhut up.” Crowley seized him by the collar and silenced his words. 

Azira persisted. He spoke around the lips that were constantly trying to clamp his shut. “We should—probably talk—about what’s bothering you.”

“No. No no no  _ no _ .” 

Crowley had fallen limp in his arms. He threw a hand over his eyes but there was no hiding the soundless sob that his lips shaped. 

“Zira please. I’m begging you. Please just make me forget.”

Azira kissed his forehead. “Shhh. Alright, anything you want, dear. But promise me we’ll talk in the morning?”

Crowley writhed in his arms. “Azira, please...”

“ _ Promise _ .”

“Fine, fine! Just—mmph—“

Crowley finally grew quiet under the guidance of his firm but gentle lips. It was rather a drunken stumble towards the bedroom. Granted, Azira never found the need for one before this, but right now the walls of his house were rearranging according to his will. With his hands full he had to kick the door open, making Crowley’s eyes widen. They only widened further when he took in the bed which stood waiting in the mostly unfurnished room. 

Crowley was silent as Azira laid him gently down upon the plush mattress. He tucked a pillow under his head, gathered him into his arms and drew the covers up over the both of them. 

“Comfortable?”

“Er. Yes. Quite.” Azira watched with amusement as the lump in Crowley’s throat bobbled nervously. “Have you...erm...done this before?”

He combed light fingers through Crowley’s hair. Did so until his eyes fluttered shut contentedly. 

“Several times.” Azira paused. “Hard to avoid in my line of work. Temptations are always the easiest when well, people are distracted.”

“I see.”

“Finally speechless, are you?” He teased, earning a smack in the face from Crowley’s indignant hand. 

“Shut up! I’m not completely inexperienced either. Y’know there are nephilims out there, right?”

“And let me guess.” Azira kissed slowly down the side of his face, teeth grazing across his earlobe. “None of them are yours.”

“Shit. You’ve got me beat.”

“It’s alright, darling.”

Crowley was utterly unprepared for the sudden endearment. He flushed very red and looked as if he was trying hard to dissociate. Azira stifled his laughter, instead reaching up Crowley’s linen shirt to stroke the expanse of his bare back. He jolted from the contact, back arching and a desperate plea escaping from his trembling lips. 

Azira took his time peeling apart Crowley’s collar. He already shuddered deeply from the fleetest of teasing touches. 

“I’ll take care of you,” he said, and moved to cover Crowley’s body with his own. 

————

The low lamp light of the room was fierce. But Azira was instead blinded by the beauty of the angel beneath him. 

Crowley’s eyes were drawn shut. His red hair splayed out vividly across the pillow from where he had thrown his head sideways. Like rivers of amber through a land of snow. “Azira... _ god _ ...Az...Zira…”

Azira kissed his cries silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Hmm. No idea how to write spicy scenes tbh,,, also is it necessary to change the rating to M or is it still considered T?? To be safe I changed it to M for now.   
But on a side note, merry Christmas!! Hope you guys had a great year ^-^ 2020’s just a few days away huh. What a wild ride.


	9. The time leading up to 1941, London

But Crowley never did wake up. 

For the first few weeks Azira didn’t question it. He stayed in bed to read, sieving fingers through Crowley’s rumpled hair. He slept like the dead. Other than the occasional rise and fall of his chest, a twitch in his fingers and a hitch in his breath, it was impossible to tell if Crowley  _ had _ actually discorporated in his sleep. But Azira didn’t feel the need to wake him. Yet. Both of them were immortal beings—so what if Crowley wanted to get a bit more shut-eye? Time was merely a speck of sand in an endless hourglass for them. Azira could wait. He would wait. 

Clearly the next course of action would be to move a bookshelf next to the bed, make himself comfortable, and read. 

Days flew by. Azira noted the fleeting brightness and darkness outside the windows as if they were mere changes in the weather. He devoured book after book. They moved from the shelf into his hands and back, again and again, until Azira had read everything at least thrice and milked them properly for every drop of literary gold. 

A month. Then two and three and four, and still Crowley did not stir. 

It was morning when Azira shut his final book with a snap. He took a deep breath. Gazed at the frozen archangel beside him. Clearly, waiting it out didn’t work. All this time he’d just been delaying his suspicions that something was very, very wrong. Azira’s mind registered only one thing then—panic. 

“Crowley.” He shook his shoulder. No response. “Wake up!”

The room’s silence was deafening. 

“Crowley please.” Azira pressed their foreheads together, and pleaded. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you wake up?”

Sickening fear seized his heart. 

“Is this...is this my doing?”

Hand trembling, he held it over the archangel’s chest and focused. Searched Crowley’s corporation from head to toe for a spark of celestial light.  _ Please, please show me you’re alright.  _

There it was. Pulsing and ebbing within Crowley like a second heart. Noticeably dimmer than usual, but Azira couldn't find anything wrong. It wasn’t tainted by demonic influence. Neither was he about to Fall (he checked both Crowley’s wings just to be sure); he was just asleep. Just asleep, and yet angels weren’t supposed to need sleep. 

Maybe there  _ was _ nothing wrong with Crowley. It must be his own choice not to awaken. But why? Azira could only think about a long string of horrid reasons.  _ It must be because he regrets what you did to him. Look at him—he can’t even bear to face you. _

_ Defiling an angel, what were you thinking? _

_ There is no reality where you would ever be deserving of his love.  _

Azira moved to the edge of the bed. Buried his face into his hands. He sat there and thought for a long time. Every tick of the clock sounded like the lashing of a whip. The sun soon slanted. It illuminated brilliant rays over Crowley’s unmoving form, while casting Azira into near complete darkness. 

Head and tails. Day and night. Angel and demon.

It’s a wonder how Azira ever felt worthy of reaching towards his light. 

He got up. Forced himself to get dressed. Struggled with the doing-up of his buttons, the folding of his cuffs. Pushed past the ache and resistance in every movement.  _ You have to leave.  _ He combed his hair. Stared into the mirror. Wondered if it was a trick of the light or if his eyes were losing their blue in favour to black.  _ You have to leave.  _ Like a ghost, he drifted back to the bedside. He fluffed up Crowley’s pillow, smoothed the blanket over him and brushed the errand locks of red from his face.

Azira straightened. He pulled his necklace over his head and grasped the gold feather within his palm for a full minute, as if drawing whatever strength he could from it. It’ll have to last him for the next few decades. Finally, he bent down and gently hung it around Crowley’s neck. Crowley still wore his own. His gold feather laid right over Azira’s tricoloured one, both resting against his beating heart. 

Azira couldn’t make himself say goodbye. Not while staring down at Crowley’s sleeping face. 

He locked the door when he left. Set up wards and incantations to ensure that harm would never dare come near Crowley’s way. Hid this entire floor from human eyes, so that no one would dream of touching it. 

As Crowley slumbered, so will this house. 

“Jolly good.” Azira cleared his throat, straightening his bow tie. He pretended not to notice the blurring around the edges of his vision. “Everything’s just tickety-boo.”

Were people staring as he discreetly sobbed into his handkerchief on the streets? For those who did, Azira made sure there was a gaping crack in the pavement for them to trip over. Bonus points if anyone managed to fall flat on their faces. Oh, who was he kidding—there wasn’t even an angel around to keep score anymore. 

————

**For years and years, perhaps ten, perhaps thirty**

Putting it simply in Crowley’s words, ‘everything sucked’.

Azira still thought about him often. Sometimes the guilt of it all would beat him so hard he was forced to tears right where he was, and that could be anywhere nowadays. Work took him everywhere around the globe. He was never the demon to take up extra assignments, but he needed every reason to keep himself busy. It’s the most effective way in blocking out intrusive thoughts. 

And so he travelled. Did a couple of temptations here and there, stirring up mild trouble as instructed. As usual, the catastrophic events were left to the humans to enact themselves, and if Hell was willing to give credit to Azira for Things He Never Did, it was a perfectly devilish move on his own part to humbly accept. Tokens included flimsy medals from the dollar store and the occasional succubus. The medals he accepted, but never the latter. He would take them out for a meal to apologise for wasting their time and that was it. Thankfully, no one ever complained. 

1907 was the year he had boldly boarded the Nimrod on a journey to uncharted lands. Azira had no reason to do this. Merely boredom, he supposed, and an agonising surplus of time he needed to kill. 

_ ‘Men wanted for hazardous journey. Low wages, bitter cold, long hours of complete darkness. Safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition in event of success.’  _

He’d read the advert and signed up immediately. There was an interview. 

“Might there be a reason why you’re interested in joining us for this expedition?” The man already looked at him like he knew Azira wouldn’t last two seconds out there. 

“Well, you know what they say.” Azira waggled his brow. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” 

“Uh huh.” He trailed off, unconvinced. After a moment’s hesitation he slid a form and pen across the desk. “Sign here.” 

“Oh, lovely! Is this to register for the expedition?” 

“No, it’s to acknowledge that we are not responsible for your death.” 

Azira hummed. “Ah.” 

The seas turned out violent all the way and the journey was not easy in the slightest. Azira had to admit that he occasionally felt out of place among the small circle of scientists. Idle talk mostly consisted of the types of sea ice and water temperature, for Heaven’s sake. But what the scientists and clever humans couldn’t do were small, inconspicuous demonic miracles. Yes, it was no coincidence that an iceberg had failed to sink them overnight, or that no one perished from severe sea-sickness. Managing to moor the Nimrod on Cape Rods however, was a feat he had to clap the captain on the back for. 

There was some talk later on about scaling Mount Erebus. Azira went on ahead himself and hoped they wouldn’t mind too much about him taking a few ideas from their itinerary. Admittedly it was much faster to fly than trek miserably, for hours on end in knee-deep snow and elephantine bags. Poor souls. Azira performed something as close to a blessing as possible (without setting himself on fire), that the group would have a safe, enriching journey. 

His wings cleaved through the clouds as he soared upwards. The damp snow caught in his hair and feathers, and Azira landed somewhere close to the peak to shake himself dry of the chilly wetness. The heat of magma stirred beneath his soles, radiating through the dry earth. He ventured towards where it felt warmest. 

He sat down by the volcano’s vent. It was spewing out red hot lava as anything, but Azira still warmed his palms against the smoke like a camper huddling by a particularly hot-tempered fire. A cup of tea would do nicely in this scenario. He miracled himself a hot Darjeeling, letting its aromatic steam warm his face. As he sat back and waited for nightfall, he tried not to miss a certain angel too much. 

Crowley would love it here. Not just for its curious inhabitants (he could really see Crowley fussing over some loud penguins), but the sense of absolute detachment one could only feel when settled in a volcano’s crater high above the rest of the world. It reminded him of Eden. Those were simpler times. There had been a tree, an apple, two humans and then an angel and a demon. 

Azira couldn’t help a wistful smile. He wondered if it was worth a trip to visit the place where the garden used to stand. Surely the settlements nearby would know a thing or two about the flaming sword. He could poke around, see where they might lead him. At least when ( _ if,  _ his mind reprimanded harshly) Crowley awoke, Azira would have good news for him. And with just enough luck he might even decide to never pull this stunt on him ever again. Sleeping for a  _ century _ ? That was a pretty demonic move even in his books. Especially when it entailed leaving behind a certain nerve-stricken friend.

His smile faded. Perhaps it was time to pay Crowley a visit. If pain was a constant with or without the archangel’s presence, then he might as well be by Crowley’s side, where the sound of his quiet breathing could bring him some solace. 

————

**Soho, London, where the rain falls gently**

**What is time, but an endless wait for you and I to reunite?**

“You know, my dear, I travelled across the seven seas. I saw the arctic lights! Pretty, gaudy, fluttery things. A lot like the cosmic dust you said you loved to splash about everywhere. I still laugh thinking about how upset Gabriel must’ve been.” 

He paused thoughtfully, taking a sip of his herbal tea. Azira traced the rim of cup absently with his index finger, where Crowley’s ring resided. Its owner slept soundly, almost silently, eyes closed from the world. 

“You gave this to me back in Wessex, remember?” He twisted the gold serpent fondly. “It’s the first time someone gave me a gift. Apart from the flaming sword of course. Still no news about it, terribly sorry my dear. I know I promised to look for it, but it is rather difficult. But worry not, dear boy. I will keep trying. I will, if it’s what you really want.”

Azira stood up, brushing a stray lock of hair from Crowley’s face. He made sure the covers were tucked around him properly. He always had a tendency to get cold. 

“Sleep well, Crowley.” He lifted the archangel’s hand and delicately kissed the back of it. “I’ll...I’ll be back.”

He gently set his hand down. Walked to the foot of the bed where a pile of wax-sealed scrolls awaited, bearing the crest of heaven. 

“Leave these to me,” assured Azira, scooping them into his arms. “Did you know I’ve been getting rather proficient at blessings lately? First few times I would burst into flames, quite an embarrassing spectacle. And you wouldn’t believe it—last week I didn’t even  _ singe _ my collar. No, go on. I knew you’d tease me about it.”

A companionable silence answered. Azira chuckled lightly. He paused by the bedroom door, only turning back fractionally to catch one last glance of Crowley’s image. “I’ll see you in a bit, dear. My trip on the titanic is due in a few days!” 

It was strange sounding so cheery when Crowley wasn’t even hearing him. Still, Azira refused to let it damper his smile. Only the tightening of his grip on the threshold betrayed the roaring grief inside his heart, an endless toiling storm. 

“Erm.” His hands found each other. Fingers interlaced, locked in a clammy grip. “If it's no trouble...please wake up soon. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?” 

Crowley didn’t promise anything, but Azira liked to think that he secretly did. Much like a single ray of sun passing through the ebony clouds, his heart lightened, and Azira finally felt what he’d been so desperate for and yet couldn’t feel to save his life—peace. 

When he left his house, it was raining out. He got under his umbrella and ambled through the streets awashed in polished grey. Rainy days reminded those alone that they were truly alone. Couples passed him, crowding for space under the umbrella and squealing whenever they wet their sleeves. And in adoring amusement, their partner would only move to hold them closer. 

How nice it would be if he and Crowley walked under the rain like this one day. Crowley would hold the umbrella of course—ever such a gentleman, as much as he himself loathed to admit it—and Azira would feign delight as he secretly sheltered the archangel with his wing. They’d link arms. Be forced to stand close, where Azira would drink himself silly on Crowley’s warmth. 

_ One day _ , Azira told himself. He’s been waiting for close to half a century. What harm could a few more years of waiting do to him? 

————

**1941, London **

The two men turned expectantly towards the sound of footsteps. They were brisk, sharp, the knock of hard sole against wood echoing within the hallowed walls of the church. Their guest paused to take off his hat. Momentarily, the stray beams of light filtering through the stained glass window painted murky wings behind his back. But blink for a minute, and they were gone. 

The man advanced towards the altar. He was dressed sleek in a dark suit, bringing out the midnight blue of his collar. Bluer still were his eyes, cold and flat like panes of glass, eerily calm and yet seeming only milliseconds away from morphing into a full-blown storm. 

“Mr Harmony. Mr Glozier.” The man nodded. 

“Mr Fell.” Glozier acknowledged solemnly, before breaking out into a teasing smile. “Surely we can abandon the formalities after all this time we’ve been working together.”

if he had heard this, the other man gave absolutely no indication. He set the heavy bundle in his hand before them and undid the strings. “I’ve brought them. Books of prophecies.”

Harmony and Glozier looked through the stack, clearly impressed. Azira flatly went on, “Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton. First editions, as requested.” 

“And what about…” 

He cut Harmony off impatiently. “The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. Yes, no such luck. That is the Holy Grail of prophetic books.”

_ One that you people absolutely do not deserve to have,  _ he wanted to add. 

“Why have you not brought it?” frowned Harmony. “I thought we made it clear that you— _ we _ —will be very rich men when the war is won.” 

“ _ If _ the war is won,” murmured Azira. 

Glozier, sensing a rise in tension, said hurriedly, “You’ve been as helpful as ever, Mr Fell. The Führer will be most grateful. The books will be in Berlin by the end of the week.”

The three men rose a brow at the cock of a gun. Only Azira did not turn, even if the said gun was pointed directly at the back of his head. 

“Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence,” announced a steely female voice. “We’ve got the building surrounded. It’s over.”

Azira did turn at that. He delicately shifted the gun barrel away from his forehead with two fingers, and smirked. “Sure it is.”

“Oh. Allow me to introduce you—”

“Fräulein Greta Kleinschmidt. I’m well aware.” He looked away from the woman’s look of surprise and fascination. “You didn’t really think you could fool me, did you?”

“So you really do live up to your name.” Greta lowered her gun. “Mr Azira Fell. Your fame precedes you.” 

He pretended not to notice the flutter of her lashes, the prowling interest stirring at the base of those eyes. He straightened his back and cleared his throat. “What can I say? Hell’s orders.”

None of the humans understood. That was fine. He’d never meant for them to. What he didn’t expect, was their confusion to deepen at the sudden raucous cry of a too-familiar voice. Azira’s heart seized and stuttered so badly he thought he’d discorporate on the spot. 

“Ow, oW OW. That’s  _ got _ to hurt.” Crowley winced, staring pointedly at Azira’s feet. “Consecrated ground, Zira, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Azira stared. And stared. And stared. Crowley was here. He was awake, hair in a mess under his bowler hat, grey suit full of wrinkles and his tie not even properly done, and he was  _ alive _ . Even wearing those hideous, coloured shades. Azira didn’t know what he’d do first. Shout his name. Lunge forward to tackle him into a hug. 

In the end, he remarked in a voice so casual he wanted to laugh. What was wrong with him? “Like being at the beach in bare feet.”

Crowley grimaced. He bounced lightly on his heels as if trying to imitate what that would be like. “Yowch.” 

Then the shock properly struck home. As did the incredulity, the irritation, and finally the horror. “ _ What _ are you going here?” He hissed. Of course Crowley would come at the worst possible time. Did he even have any idea of the danger he was in?  _ Course not.  _ Azira realised.  _ You never told him.  _

“Wha’s it look like? Crowley spread his arms out. “Stopping you from getting into trouble!”

The Nazis behind them had recollected themselves. 

Glozier demanded, “Who is  _ he _ ?”

“Oh, how rude of me! I forgot to introduce myself. Yes, the name’s Anthony J. Crowley.” 

Azira made a face. “ _ Anthony _ ?”

Crowley shimmied a little as if he had been whipped. “You don’t like it?”

Pitifulness like that of a kicked puppy radiated off him in waves. It’d been so long, Azira forgot—just how far the extent of the archangel’s stupidity could really reach, and how much he wanted to kiss him for it. It was positively maddening. 

Azira forced himself to make a non-committal noise. “I’ll get used to it.”

“Well aren’t you just delighted to see me.” Crowley grinned, wild and unbridled and free. “Come onnnn. Guess.”

“What?”

“Guess what the J stands for!”

“Enough babbling!” Harmony struck the table with his fist. “Mr Fell. Kill him.” 

Crowley reeled, his mouth popping open into a wide ‘O’. “You’re working for  _ them _ ? Oh, Zira, Zira, Zira, how could you?”

Azira nursed his temples. “Do be quiet, Crowley.” He drew in a sharp breath, and whirled upon his bewildered (ex)colleagues. It was hard keeping out the smug in his voice as he declared, “I have good news. In just about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will very well kill us all. I hope you enjoy dying. Because you definitely would not like what comes after.” 

The first signs of betrayal was starting to register on Glozier’s face. “You’re bluffing.”

“My dear Mr Glozier,” explained Azira delicately, “The only reason why I met you was precisely because I ensured a bomb will land here tonight.” 

“And  _ how _ were you planning on escaping?” Crowley scowled. 

Azira didn’t respond. He just hoped the archangel wouldn’t be too upset. 

“Zira!”

“Perhaps it would take a real miracle for you and I to survive it.” He winked. 

The demon slowly lifted a hand to his ear. The others soon noticed the distinct wail of an incoming bomb. Fear flashed across the humans’ faces. Annoyance crossed Crowley’s. And then with a great, ear-splitting explosion, everything flared white, and finally black. 

Crowley waited for the soot and debris to settle before dispersing his miracle. His wings had came out, wrapping protectively around Azira, and they only folded neatly away again when Crowley surveyed their surroundings; the smothering ruins of a fallen church. 

His knees suddenly giving out, Azira fell back against a slab of what used to be the wall and winced. “Thank satan that was finally over.”

Crowley wipes the dust off his coloured shades. He put them back on. “Nazis’ a pain in the ass to deal with?” 

“You have no idea. Also, you were right. It bloody hurts.” Azira clutched his ankle. He couldn’t reach the soles of his feet that had turned numb from pain minutes ago. And even if he could get his shoes off, it might not be such a wise idea to touch them. He was wondering if the skin had entirely peeled off his feet. 

“Aw.” Crowley knelt down by his side, petting his knee softly. “The joys of doing good.”

“Excuse me? I aided some Nazis  _ and _ destroyed a church. I’d expect nothing less than a few months of paid vacation, thank you very much—woah!”

Crowley had swept him up into his arms in a grand display of sheer angelic strength. With one hand slung under his knees and the other firm against his back, Crowley held him securely against his chest and Azira wanted nothing more than to sink deeper into the embrace. 

Tears stung his eyes. Azira didn’t bother hiding them. He twined his arms around Crowley’s neck, clinging desperately as if he were drowning at sea. And he had. For seventy-nine years. Now, Crowley was the lifeline thrown out to his flailing hands, and at last it reeled him back to shore. 

Azira could feel the sun on his back again, 

Crowley held him closer. “I’ve got you.”

“The books…” his eyelids were growing strangely heavy. 

“Course I hadn’t forgotten,” snorted Crowley. “You and your precious books. They’re in the car, Zira. I’ll get you a lift home.”

Panic struck him like a wave. He couldn’t go back. Not to the place that would greet him with only silence, promises kept and unkept, and a lifetime of waiting that he was sure would never be over. 

Azira seized Crowley’s shirt with the last of his strength. “No! No. Anywhere...but there…”

He couldn't see his eyes through the infuriatingly opaque shades, But his own reflection in them looked very, very tired. 

“Alright, angel.” Azira would have jolted at the word if he wasn’t so damned exhausted. “I’ve got you.” 

————

He awoke, dazed and confused, someone rubbing his feet. Crowley was seated on the sofa with him against the lamp. It cast his side profile in shadow, yet highlighting all his sharp edges and slender hands and the fondness in his gold eyes as he worked knuckles into Azira’s soles. 

“Does it hurt?” hummed Crowley. 

He wiggled his toes. “Not at all.”

“That’s the Archangel of Healing for you.” Crowley smirked. 

Azira rubbed his face. Glanced sideways at the dozens of potted trees across the tiny room. It was warm and smelled faintly of cedar wood. A fireplace was burning somewhere. He struggled upright, a blanket falling off him. “Where…”

Hands gently pushed him back down onto the cushions. “Don’t get up.” Crowley got up, only to cross over to his side and smooth out the blanket about his shoulders. Azira’s breath caught in his throat. He rather thought he might cry again and make a mess of things. “You’re in a bad shape, Zira. Anything I can get for you? Some tea? Wine? Cake?”

Azira stared at the lovely tangerine light swirling like a whirlpool of molten gold at the base of Crowley’s lovelier eyes. “Kiss me.”

Crowley’s brows raised but he complied. Their lips met, tentatively at first, and then rushed and hurried when Azira caught the rumpled edges of his collar and pulled him atop of him. He was caught between the confines of Crowley’s hands and knees down on the sofa. It was warm. It smelled of flowers. It smelled of home. As Crowley leaned in again, Azira closed his eyes, tilting his head to meet him halfway. 

Crowley gentled the frantic movement of his lips with utmost patience, until Azira relaxed enough to settle fully back against the cushions. He turned his head sideways and sighed. Crowley moved to run kisses along his jaw, and then down his throat, flicking his tongue against the hard edge of his collarbone underneath all his softness. Azira shuddered, his toes curling. 

“Were you really planning on discorporating with the humans back at that bloody church?” Crowley murmured against his skin. 

Azira ran his hands up Crowley’s shirt and traced the indent in the centre of his back. “Maybe I was waiting.”

“Waiting?”

He buried his face into the heat of Crowley’s shoulder. “For someone to come rescue me.”

Fingers ran gently through his curls and scratched the base of his neck. Azira murmured contentedly, leaning back. Crowley returned to peppering kisses down the side of his face. He couldn’t get enough. Azira arched eagerly against every fleeting touch, as if desperately trying to succumb into Crowley’s presence in affirmation that he was really here. 

He nearly sobbed when Crowley stroked his sides. “It hurt.”

“What did?” He asked gently, quietly, trying to soothe away all the pain. 

“You.” A tear ripped itself loose. “When you were gone.”

Crowley thumbed it away. Traced his cheekbone lightly. Gazed at him tenderly through half-lidded eyes. “I’m so sorry. Shouldn’t have, um, slept for as long as I did. Big idiot, me. Dunno what I was doing really…”

“Don’t apologise.”

“Zira?”

He tackled Crowley’s lips with his own. “Show me that you’ll stay.”

Crowley tightened his hands around him. “I’m all yours, angel.”

There it was again. Azira frowned. Crowley whined when he drew away, but there was something in dire need of clarification. 

Crowley understood without him even needing to ask. “Imagine my surprise when I woke up, having done not a shred of work in almost a century, and found a shiny medal for good improvement. From Gabriel, no less.”

“Did you?” Azira hid a devious smile. 

Crowley shook his head and kissed him. “Cunning demon. You did all my assignments for me, didn’t you?”

“You’re welcome,” he giggled, intoxicated from the slow slide of Crowley’s tongue across his bottom lip. 

“No, you just raised everyone’s expectations of me. You fiend. You bastard, you—”

Azira teasingly bit down on his lip. 

“—angel,” Crowley gasped, pupils suddenly going very wide. A faint blush powdered across his cheeks. “Err. About last night. I mean. Last night seventy-nine years ago…”

Azira froze. Held his breath, steeled himself for the worst. 

“Wanna do it again?”

That was not what he was expecting. Heat shot up to his face immediately, and he had to writhe uncomfortably under Crowley’s gaze of fond amusement. Mostly amusement, that stupid archangel. 

Azira looked away. Fiddled with his hands. “I thought you regretted it.” 

Crowley barked a laugh. “Erm, the fuck? ’s easily the best night of my life.”

“Then...why…” the words died on his tongue. “You weren’t sleeping to avoid me?”

“Nooooooooo! Best night of my life, I said. Figures I’d sleep a century.” He blushed again.

“Oh.” Warmth flooded through his heart from all corners. He found Crowley’s hand, laced their fingers together and brought it up to kiss it. “You sweet thing.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I love you.”

The admission hung between them, breathless and steady. Crowley held himself in check for a grand total of ten seconds before he became an absolute  _ mess _ of emotions—mostly in the form of sloppy kisses and discreet tears. 

Later on as they drifted off to sleep in a tangle of bare arms and legs, Crowley murmured back into Azira’s ear the same two words he had said earlier. And Azira, pretending that he was asleep, let his answering smile in the dark seem like a mere coincidence. 

————

The sheets were still warm when Azira awoke. He patted the space next to him—empty—and he all but flew upright in barely suppressed panic. Had it all been a dream? No, it can't be. And he  _ still _ didn’t know where he was. 

“Mornin’ angel,” said a voice from the door. Crowley practically sauntered to bed in a white bathrobe and a silver tray in hand. It was laden with fruits, cheese, toasted bread and cured ham, and a cup of steaming tea that smelled of sweet flowers. “Made you breakfast.”

Azira found no words. Instead, the most ridiculously sappy smile spread across his face, and Crowley, mortified, was already making excuses to run off somewhere. He didn’t let him. 

He only got to eat his lukewarm breakfast when Crowley laid wide-eyed and swollen-lipped beside him on his back, breathing harshly. 

“Bastard,” he quipped. 

Azira popped a strawberry into his mouth and pretended not to understand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is 1.42am and I almost one-shotted this after having a small breakdown about how I’m not getting any decent work done recently. Now I’m relieved I finally managed to finish something XD
> 
> Past few weeks have been wild. Cosplayed for the first time (as Crowley) to a con and I had a ton of fun taking photos with nice people and just swiping all the good omens merch I saw !! Good times, good times. School won’t be so nice though hurhur
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading! Leave a comment, I love seeing them! Also please feel free to point out any mistakes cause I’m too tired to proof read ;’) thanks so much!


	10. Soho, London 1967

Crowley had just about finished polishing the leaves of his potted freesia when the bell on his door tinkled. 

“Closed,” he said without looking up. Customers who came in at this sort of hour were usually a headache to deal with. He had more important matters tonight than to entertain a sad sod begging for roses to save their botched date.

The voice that spoke however, was gruff, all-business and perfectly accentless. Not a customer then. “Mr Crowley. You requested for our service?”

Crowley set the pot down. “Yes. That’s me, yes. Gimme a sec.” He stretched, popping his aching joints, then reached behind his back to untie his white apron. It was left on a hook beside a handsome palm tree. “Have a seat, ladies. Can I get you anything? Tea? Alcohol?”

The three women, clad in intimidatingly black gear, exchanged a glance before sliding into the stools by the front counter. Loose ribbons and trimmed leaves were left strewn over the glass. He must have been arranging a bouquet earlier. Their leader picked up and twirled a stalk of peony between her fingers. Its delicacy felt foreign in her rough hand. She gazed sharply at Crowley when he approached, silver tray in hand. 

“I hope you don’t mind us asking, love.” Her comrade waved shyly. “But why does a nice florist such as yourself need the help of underground smugglers?”

Crowley handed them each a glass. He then sprawled down upon his high stool, all lanky arms and limbs, hunched over the glass counter with his cheek against his upturned palm. “I’m looking for a weapon. It’s been lost for a long time now, but I want it back. It’s something like a family heirloom, see.”

Their leader frowned. But there was nothing to scrutinise from behind those rose-pink shades; she merely saw her own flummoxed reflection glaring back at her. No sign of it being a joke, or anything less than a professional transaction. She finally relaxed. 

“What kind of weapon?”

“A sword. The biblical kind.”

“And you’re sure it exists?”

“A hundred percent.” The man smiled faintly. The fluorescent bulb hanging over them cast harsh shadows under the sharpness of his face. For a moment the light seemed to shift, forming a halo behind his messy bun of flaming hair. The woman glanced down into her glass. Then back up at Crowley. The mirage was gone. “It flames like anything. You wouldn’t miss it.”

“Hmm.” She took a slow sip. It was good wine; dark and crimson and viscous like blood, the colour of her nails. “Let’s talk payment.”

Crowley snapped his fingers. The cash register popped open with a chime, and he leafed through the notes inside as if they were pocket change. 

“Five hundred pounds now—” he slid the cash across the counter. “—five hundred more when the job is done, and a thousand to keep schtum.” 

It was a deal too good to pass up. Both parties, well aware of the fact, reached a consensus quickly. 

“Very well, Mr Crowley.” The woman took his hand and shook firmly. “We’ll keep in touch.” 

He nodded. “I expect good news.”

“We’ll do our best. Goodnight.” 

The bell chimed again when the door closed. Crowley watched them leave, drumming his fingers against the counter restlessly. It was too quiet again now that he was alone. He’d always had a problem with making this shop feel like home. Its clean minimalism wasn’t anything like Azira’s apartment, where he could feel compelled to snooze just by dangling over a stack of books (much to the demon’s chagrin). He thought he just needed to fill it up more. And so he travelled, bringing back seeds and saplings from all over, tucking them in pots and his back garden and the balcony upstairs. He grew bamboo from China, plush hydrangeas from Japanese towns, bright frangipani from Southeast Asia. And in no time at all, the shop had become overrun by uncannily sentient plants. Everything here fed on the residues of Crowley’s divinity. Impossible birdsong whistled from clusters of dark green leaves, and the plants rustled not from the wind but merely as they pleased. Customers would always do a double take when they came in, confused as to whether they’d entered a florist or a ravishing rainforest, 

Crowley adored it. Save for one last missing piece, he’d almost reconstructed his own paradisical version of Eden. Just him, his plants, the occasional human and…

“Azira.” He reached glumly for his necklaces. There were two now. He assumed Azira left his with him for safekeeping during their more tumultuous days, and it was due time Crowley returned it. That is to say, if the bastard ever thought of showing up. How many years has it been now since they’d last seen each other? No, he knew. Only twenty odd years. Nothing like the wait he’d made Azira go through, but it was agonising all the same. He wondered sometimes if he was being punished. 

His plants whispered nervously. Crowley clenched and unclenched his fists on the countertop. The idea of cheap booze and uncouth pub music seemed really inviting all of a sudden. 

“All right, lay off.” He sighed, grabbing his jacket off the stool. “I’ll go have a drink, alright? And by the time I’m back, one of you better have your flowers open and your leaves shiny.” 

He didn’t bother locking up the shop. No one’s daft enough to rob a florist—definitely not daft enough to rob an angelic one. He left his plants in charge of housekeeping, whistled while twirling his keys around his finger, and headed towards the Bently. It was parked by the curb (or halfway on it, to make more space for the open road of course) where he’d last left it. 

The last thing he expected to find was demonic company. Very familiar demonic company. His heart leapt to his throat. It took whatever bit of self-control left in him to avoid discorporating on the spot. 

“Azira.” He was sure the shades were falling off his face. “What’re you—where have you _ been _?” He demanded. 

“Oh, all over my dear boy.” Azira wiped the sweat off his brow with a silk handkerchief. He sounded thoroughly winded. “The last twenty years have been tough, I’ll give you that. Crowley, dearest, what are you planning now?”

“What?” He tried not to blush at the sudden endearment. Tried. God, he’d missed him. 

Azira gave him a fond glance-over. “I live just a street away and I hear things. I hear you’ve hired a couple of smugglers and sent them all the way to Mesopotamia.”

“I wasn’t aware you were around to hear it.” 

Silence. A light rain had begun to fall. They pattered against the windscreen gently. 

“The flaming sword could destroy you completely, Crowley.”

“I _ know _. You’ve told me before. Quite vividly, as I recall.”

He remembered the disbelief on Azira’s face then. The furrow between his brows, the anger in his eyes before he stormed off. Leaving him behind. Losing his faith in him. The memory still ached like an old wound. Nagging, constant. Never letting go.

“And I haven’t changed my mind.”

Crowley internally groaned. He thought about bashing his head against the steering wheel. 

“But I can’t have you risking your life. You mean too much to me for that, so if you could inform those lovely ladies that the job is off…”

Azira cupped his palms together. When he drew his topmost hand away in a skyward motion, a bronze sword conjured itself into his grip. The blade caught afire almost instantly. It cast rich flames that swirled in the arctic sea of Azira’s half-lidded eyes. Crowley swallowed. It was doing all sorts of funny things to his heart. He had to blink quickly when the brilliant light abruptly extinguished. Azira handed the sword to him, secured in its scabbard. 

“Don’t go unsheathing it.” 

Crowley took it with an air of wonder. It weighed significantly more in his hands than it had looked in Azira’s. 

“You got it back,” he breathed. “After everything you said?”

“I did.” His lips curled. “For you.”

An electric bolt seemed to jolt through Crowley’s veins. He set the sword down in the backseat carefully, aware of the blue eyes on him. At last when he turned to face the demon again, there was a faint blush on both their faces. Azira glanced away nervously. Crowley swallowed thickly. He couldn’t still his hand; it reached up to cup his face softly, and upon the fleeting brushes of his thumb across his cheek, Azira’s eyes flickered back onto his. 

“Care to come inside?” Crowley blabbered thoughtlessly. “For a, um, drink, if you’d like?”

Blast him. Why did he suggest the last thing that was on his mind right now? He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, unsuccessfully trying not to combust under Azira’s gaze which leaked both gentle understanding and profound fondness. 

Azira turned his face into his palm and kissed the centre of it. “If it’s what the angel commands.”

The next few moments were a bewildering blur. Crowley remembered not their stumble to the shop’s door, nor the way his heart leapt when the blinds fell shut with a snap of Azira’s fingers to veil them both in blissful darkness. What he did recall was the fullness of Azira’s lips curling around his own, the softness of his perfect middle that Crowley ached to rake his hands all over. He wanted to cry. This was what he had been missing. This was why home hadn’t quite felt like home. But now he was back, and Crowley could feel every inch of his velvet roundness fitting into his sharp edges, and the world was almost okay again. 

“Dearest.” Azira breathed into his ear. “Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

Through the tears, the tremors of his heart and the vivid colours swirling in his mind, Crowley twined his arms tighter around Azira and buried his face into his shoulder. They had paused halfway up the stairs. He was pinned flat against the wall, the top-half of his shirt unbuttoned. Nowhere else he’d rather be. Fingers were reaching behind his head, and when they pulled his ponytail free and scratched amorously down the back of his neck, Crowley’s head fell back against the wall and he whimpered. 

“Azira. Zira. Angel. I—_ nghh _—”

His toes curled when lips pecked down the side of his neck. 

“What was that, darling?”

Crowley dug his nails into Azira’s back, letting out an embarrassingly loud mew. 

“I missed you.” 

“Oh, my poor dear.” Azira reached up his shirt and caressed the expanse of his back agonisingly slowly. “I’ve kept you waiting, haven’t I?”

Crowley gritted his teeth. “You damn tease.” 

He grabbed Azira’s collar and shoved. The narrow walls of the staircase flickered out of view, replaced by the birch panels of his bedroom. It smelled like lavender and sandalwood. Azira fell back against his bed, momentarily stunned by the sight of Crowley kneeling over him. His head lolled to the side. With an appreciative glance at the fireplace it roared to life, spilling honey-orange light over its hearth. They wove gold into the bright copper of Crowley’s hair. Azira caught a lock between his fingers, tugging softly. Crowley relented. His eyes slid shut as he draped himself over Azira, ear resting against the beating heart in his chest. 

“I missed you,” he said again, fingers lacing with Azira’s. “Where did you go?”

He kissed his temple and stroked his hair while he spoke. “I missed you too, dearest. Looking for the flaming sword took much longer than I’d anticipated. But I should’ve done it a long time ago, so I didn’t want to give up. You’ll forgive me for making you wait, won’t you?”

“‘s nothing angel,” Crowley murmured. “But what made you change your mind?”

“I love you, dear.”

His mind crashed to a complete stop. “H—huh? Uhh...thanks, I guess? But um...where did that come from?”

Azira explained patiently, “I did it because I love you.” 

Warmth flooded over his face. “Oh. _ Oh _.” He blinked rapidly, if only to string together at least one coherent thought. “You do?”

Nervously, Azira twisted the ring around his finger. “Demons can’t love, so I don’t know for sure if I’m allowed to say things like these. But I want to.” He traced the edge of Crowley’s face. “I love you. It’s not...wrong, is it...?”

_ For a creature of the damned to want to embrace celestial love? For me to want you, to be by your side? _Unanswered questions swirled desperately in the ocean blue of Azira’s tear-stained eyes. There was fear, misery, longing, but there was hope too, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to whisper to him sweet nothings until that delicate hope was all he could see.

Crowley answered with his lips. They spoke of adoration, devotion, a reverent prayer he’d usually only reserve for the Almighty herself. 

_ You are loved, you are loved, you are loved. _

And if anyone had a problem with that, Crowley might just put the flaming sword to good use. 

“Darling…” Azira chuckled when his fingers made short work of his navy waistcoat, tearing it open. His periwinkle shirt beneath was delightfully wrinkled. Crowley reached for those buttons fervently, popping them open one by one from his collar down until fingers curled gently around his wrist and stilled him. “Wait a moment.”

Crowley froze. “Too fast?”

Faint pink dusted across Azira’s cheeks. “I was just thinking if we could maybe...start slow? Err. Um…”

“Angel.” He rolled off to give him some breathing space. “Don’t be scared. You can tell me anything.”

Azira flipped around to look at him. His smile was blinding, pouring enough love to match the sun’s radiance. “Well. You remember what happened the last few times we met.”

Vivid images flashed past his mind. Ecstasy, wandering hands in the dark and love. “Ah. That.” 

“Yes. That. Now don’t get me wrong, darling, I loved it—and you—but now I realise I haven’t even courted you properly yet!” Azira sounded distressed on all levels except the way he kept tracing hypnotic circles on the back of his palm. 

Crowley fidgeted. His head spun too much to process more than half of those words. “...Court?”

“You must forgive my manners,” he apologised. “I’ll do it properly this time, Crowley, I promise. I’ve been researching about humans and all their delicate mating rituals. So it would be very good of you to let me restart; take it from the top, as they say.”

“_ Mating. _” Crowley felt rather strangled. 

The way Azira smiled at him did unfathomable things to his heart. “You’ll let me, won’t you?” He took the side of Crowley’s face into his palm, stroking softly. “Let me take care of you properly?” 

As if he had to ask. As if Azira didn’t already know Crowley would trip on his feet to do anything he wanted him to. Azira’s eyes gleamed like he could read his thoughts, and it was that streak of bastard in his otherwise harmless self that finally made Crowley‘s defences crack. 

Without thinking he blabbered out loud and clear, “I love you.” 

Wait. 

No. 

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Crowley flinched as if he’d been lashed by a whip. Azira blinked slowly, once, twice, then his eyes widened most exuberantly as if he’d caught him red handed. Crowley groaned. He buried his burning face in his hands and rolled about the mattress. “Noooo no no no nOOO!”

Azira couldn’t stifle his laughter. He reached out to pull him close, chest heaving. “Crowley, dearest—”

“Stop talking. Please stop talking. ArgHHHH I can’t believe I said it!” 

“But don’t you love me, dear?” He feigned innocence. 

“I do—‘_ course _ I do, but not out loud!”

Azira’s grin merely widened when Crowley realised his slip-up again. He smacked his own face. 

“Zira.” He wept softly. “You’re discorporating me, you fiend.”

“Sorry.” Lips pecked his forehead. Then Azira wove his fingers through his hair the way he always liked; rhythmically, methodically—strokes and then a light pull like the tide receding from shore. “Let me make it up to you?”

Crowley pouted. “Hmm.” 

Azira drew him closer till not a sliver of space remained between their bodies. Their feet touched. They played footsies. “What do you have in mind, dear?”

“Nothing that you’d approve of, as per your last request,” he said wickedly, giving Azira’s stiff collar an experimental pull. “Unless…” 

The demon rolled his eyes. He shifted, putting most of his weight on his knees and forearms as he climbed over Crowley. The plump mattress sunk under their combined weight. Crowley snuggled and made himself comfortable. He felt pillowed between two of the world’s softest surfaces, and that by itself already made his skin prick and his toes curl. 

Azira leaned down to kiss him. Softly, leisurely, taking his time. Crowley soon had his eyes shut and his hands running wildly through the snowy curls on Azira’s head. They broke apart, his heart racing and his face embarrassingly warm. 

Crowley caught Azira’s look of distant inquiry. He sighed and grumbled, pulling him back down again by the back of his neck. “Fine. This’ll do. You win.” 

There was no more talking for the rest of the night. And yet, it was the first night in many many nights when Crowley did not feel completely alone. 

————

It was warm. And bright. Annoyingly bright. Crowley groggily rubbed his eyes, glaring at the window when he opened them. The curtains drew themselves shut with an apologetic hiss. Crowley closed his eyes again, nuzzling his face deeper into his pillow. It smelled like Azira. There was a strange lightness in his limbs, a clarity in his mind that slowly lulled him back into sleep. He was fine. Today was fine. He didn’t want to ever wake up from this sunny bliss. 

“Blessed morning, darling.” 

Crowley cranked one eye open. Azira was getting dressed, his back turned to him, skin a flaming ivory under the morning light. His every movement was mesmerising; the grace in which he did the buttons of his waistcoat, the deft turns of his fingers as he pulled the bow-tie into place. Crowley watched enraptured with eyes wide and gold and so very in love. They were almost in the shape of hearts. Maybe he was asleep again. No way this could not be a dream, even if the realism of this one was off the charts. Not that he was complaining. 

“How do you feel?” Azira checked his reflection in the mirror. Bird demons were ever such vain creatures. He had on his fingers almost a dozen rings, flaunting off almost every gem available in the current market. He was rearranging them and deciding which he’d keep on today. Except for Crowley’s serpent ring. As far as he knew, Azira had never taken it off. 

Crowley collapsed back down against the pillows. “Like I can sleep for a century.” 

“Should I be worried?” 

“Nah.” He made a face at the ceiling. “I’ll just miss out on too much again. Speaking of which, are you _ ever _going to show me your ridiculous dance?” 

“It’s called the gavotte, dear boy.” Azira gave his bow-tie one last immaculate pinch before rising from the vanity. “Maybe next time.” 

Crowley stifled a yawn. He tried not to sound concerned. Tried. “Leaving already?” 

“Unlike you, some of us have work to do,” he jabbed without spite, coming over to the bedside to indulge Crowley in a kiss. He immediately sobered up like taking the first coffee of the day. “And I still think it’s best if we try to keep our distance. For now. Well.” He gave the TV across the room a nervous glance. “You never know who’d pop in for a quick peep.” 

No matter how close they became, there was no denying the fact that they originated from two vastly different worlds. It was absurd, really. He fantasised about creating a planet which was just for them. It’ll have a garden (obviously), a lake, some ducks, and all the space Azira would need to fill up his books with. And then in the evenings they could have a drive in the Bently past the edge of the world, where the sunsets would be gorgeous always. 

“Crowley.” A pair of fingers snapped in front of his nose. “Are you still awake? I’ll be off now, alright?” 

“Mmm.” He made a noncommittal noise. Maybe he’d sleep off the time Azira was planning to spend away and dream more about that paradise of a planet. “A’ight. Wait. Hold on, angel.”

Azira had reached the threshold, but made a quick detour. Crowley reached for the two necklaces around his neck. He extracted the one with the gold feather and raised it up between their faces. “Forgetting something?” 

Azira’s eyes lit up. He turned his palms upwards so Crowley could deposit the necklace into them. The black string spilled between the gaps of his fingers carelessly as he thumbed the vane of the gold feather. 

“Th—thank you.” He beamed. “Will you help me put it on?” 

“Turn around.” 

Azira did and dipped his head, exposing a slice of skin. Crowley undid the knot on the necklace and re-tied it around his neck for a better fit. It had been years, after all. He tried to ignore the frantic leaps of his heart whenever his fingers brushed soft skin. 

“There.” Crowley took his shoulders and gently turned Azira back to face him. “I um, replaced the feather. It was getting a bit old.” 

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Would you like me to…?”

“Next time.” Crowley cleared his throat, saving himself from embarrassment by diving down into the pillows face-first. “Don’t you have work to do?” 

He heard Azira’s feet shuffle. Just when he thought the demon was gone for good, a hand reached down to tousle his hair playfully. Crowley spun onto his front with a grunt, intending to bat the hand away, but soon realised the room was empty. A lone feather drifted to rest on the bed before him. So Azira hadn’t left without a parting gift. 

Crowley held up the new feather by the shaft and turned it this way and that under the light. Then he swapped the charm on his necklace for the new one, before snuggling back down into the covers. Azira’s feather remained warm against his skin. If this was what hellfire felt like, then maybe he didn’t have so much to fear after all. 

The days were starting anew. Heaven now mostly left him alone after he submitted an overblown proposal about how he was advocating peace through the language of flowers (hear him out, it might not be as stupid as you think. Most humans were surprisingly open to the idea of giving bouquets which spelt ‘fuck you’ in flower instead of just a good old punch to the gut. It keeps things interesting).

He liked his job. He liked helping people get back at their exes, lifting frowns with a handful of sunflowers and small children who squealed at pink daisies. He liked it even more when Azira was around, nesting in a basket of geraniums in his owl form, or raising questions whenever he fell asleep in the old rocking chair behind the counter. An old lady once told him that they made a sweet couple. Saying that Crowley combusted on the spot was an understatement. So many flowers had bloomed simultaneously that Azira woke up sneezing from the sudden blanket of pollen in the air. 

This was fine, Crowley realised. He could get used to this. Sometimes he wondered if it was overkill asking Azira for the flaming sword. What could possibly bring an end to these happy, gentle days? 

“Good old Armageddon.” Crowley snickered, half-asleep. 

In retrospect, he didn’t actually think it would happen. He just happened to have very, very bad luck when it comes to things like these. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo we’re finally going back to the (near) present guys :D 
> 
> I’m lacking motivation to do anything but I came to an epiphany that I should just force myself to do said things anyway. So I’m gonna survive school and continue to make decent progress on this fic ;] fingers crossed


	11. 11 years to the end of the world

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. If it was, Azira would have brought an umbrella. 

The shadow of a ruined church loomed over him. He sighed through his nose. Drummed his fingers against his crossed arms. Rolled the cigar between his teeth. It was common (dis)courtesy for demons to arrive fashionably late, but frankly it just made meetings all the more annoying.

A circle of dirt on his left began to stir. From the packed earth rose two dishevelled figures. It would appear that his colleagues have finally decided to show up at last. Azira did not bother to hide the displeasure on his face as he turned towards them. 

“All hail Satan,” he announced briskly. 

“All hail Satan,” Hastur and Ligur repeated clumsily. 

“You’re late.”

The two demons furtively glanced elsewhere. Azira had a knack of making others of his kind exceptionally uncomfortable, as if they had committed some heinous crime by, well, being proper demons. Hastur and Ligur soon found themselves scrambling for excuses without even knowing why. 

“Save it.” Azira spat out his cigar and ground it beneath his heels. The two demons stared and broke out in cold sweat, as if imagining themselves to be next. “Well? You’ve called me all the way out here. State your business and I might just decide not to eviscerate you on the spot.” 

“You can’t do that,” Ligur spluttered. “Can he?” He shot his companion a hesitant whisper. 

Hastur held up a hand to keep him quiet. Best not to take any chances. The demon Azira was infamous for being a wild card, somehow both capable of grievous insubordination and unquestioning obedience. It was why all the Higher Ups liked him so much. He was defiant, sometimes outrageously so, but still got his work done. Basically everything Hell aspired to be. A common demon like Ligur and even a duke like Hastur could never hold a candle to the likes of him. 

He picked up the wicker basket by his feet, then lowered himself into a mocking bow as he presented it to Azira. The latter took it without a single glance at either demon. His eyes were too fixed on the basket, or rather, what lied inside it. For a chilling moment they narrowed into thin slices of the most intimidating arctic blue. The toad on Hastur’s head croaked nervously. At the noise, Azira’s gaze shot up from the basket and burned with such intensity that both demons took a wary step back. 

No, demons couldn’t trust other demons. And especially not the demon Azira. He was too different. Too unpredictable. What else could they expect of a demon who could wear an Archangel’s feather like a medallion?

“Is something the matter?” Ligur frowned. 

“This is…” 

“Yes.”

“ _ Already _ ?”

“Yes.” 

He had never seen Azira lose his composure like this. All at once the menace melted from his face, leaving behind something soft and unguarded. It made Hastur’s skin crawl. He couldn’t comprehend it for the world. How many masks did this creature even wear, and which one was actually real?

It was tiring, dealing with this changeling of a creature. Better let him get back to whatever he was doing, so he and Ligur could resume their leisurely lurking in the dark. 

He produced a clipboard. “Sign here.”

Azira squared his shoulders. The burning sigil he inscribed upon the page was a convolution of gentle curls and harsh lines. Instantly the entire sheet went up into flames. He stared at the dissipating embers with inexplicable forlornness. 

“Now what?” Azira let out an aggrieved sigh. 

“You will receive instructions.” Then out of curiosity (and mostly suspicion), Hastur asked, “Why so glum? You’ve been forced to work on this dump of a planet for centuries. I imagine you’d be happiest to watch it burn.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I rather enjoy my stay on earth,” he said dryly. 

Hastur did not bother hiding the disgust on his face. He was only consoled when Ligur suggested, “Well. It  _ is _ a shame that there won’t be any humans left to torment after Armageddon.”

“Right right.” Azira nursed his temples. He looked extremely pained. “Exactly what I mean, gentlemen.” 

“But imagine this, Azira—the entire earth conquered by hell. Pits of burning sulfur everywhere you look! We’d have angels to torment next.” 

His face only paled. “Yes. How exciting. Now, I um. Must be off. So nice meeting you.” He paused delicately. “Toodles!”

With a hasty wave, Azira picked up the wicker basket and hurried off into the mist. There came a dismembered screech of tires, then the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut. 

Hastur and Ligur were left alone in the aftermath. 

“Toodles?”

“Italian. Probably some kind of noodle.” 

————

“‘Lo, angel.” The man in dark shades greeted as Azira slid into the passenger seat of the Bently and yanked the door shut. Instantly he collapsed against the headrest, letting out a strangled sigh. That was close. Too close. He’d almost dropped his entire  _ tough-nasty- demon-fancy a stab in your back? _ act right in front of a duke of hell. Talk about being horribly out of practice. 

“Evening, my dear.” He took in a few steadying breaths to calm himself. Then he leaned across to plant a light kiss on his angel’s lips. Behind his shades, Crowley’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Thank you for picking me up. I think I’m about to collapse from shock.”

A reassuring hand settled on his knee. With his other Crowley turned the steering wheel to drive them out into the open road. “Where to?”

Azira couldn’t reply. He had to keel over at once when a supernova of noise abruptly imploded in his head. 

_ Here are your instructions, demon Azira. This is a big one. Do not mess this up, or else.  _

A church. Satanic nuns. The eventual switch between a human and devil which would occur. These were the vital cogs of Armageddon, and at last they were starting to turn. 

“Angel.  _ Angel _ .”

Crowley had pulled up to the side of the road. One of his hands cupped Azira’s face and the other was rubbing soothing motions up and down his back. 

“Alright?”

“I don’t think anyone could feel alright under these circumstances.” He drew out a handkerchief from behind his navy coat to dab his forehead. Crowley had suddenly gone tense in the driver seat. He touched his elbow worriedly. “My dear?”

“Ah shit.” He cursed, tapping his temples. “It’s Gabriel. He magicked himself into my shop.”

“Should you go see him?”

He looked reluctant, as if it would require an imperial summon from the Almighty herself to get him to do it. “Ngh—two minutes. I’ll be back. Promise, angel.”

Azira smiled faintly. “I know you will.”

With a sharp static in the air, Crowley’s form flickered and disappeared altogether. Azira sighed again. Turned towards the backseat where he had deposited the wicker basket. He reached out a hand. Drew it back. Wondered what abomination he was about to see.

He inhaled a shuddering breath, then reached all the way to lift a corner of the basket lid. A baby was wrapped up in crimson cloth inside. As the light hit its eyes, it squirmed and its face contorted into the beginning of a wail. Azira replaced the lid of the basket. He nursed his head glumly while the Antichrist in the backseat cried and cried. 

————

Crowley materialised in his flower shop to see Gabriel poking about the petunias. Not a welcome sight. When he closed up shop, he expected no one to be in it—celestial being or not. Perhaps it was due time he considered strengthening the wards. They do a good job of keeping out annoyances. Humans and demons (a select one) he didn’t mind, but angels? Big flat no. 

“Gabeee, what a pleasant surprise!” His tone of voice heavily suggested otherwise. 

As always, Gabriel that prick pretended not to notice. 

“Brother!” He greeted warmly. Dressed in a crisp grey suit, adorned with a purple tie, the formality of his outfit stood out in stark comparison with Crowley’s maroon T-shirt, white leather jacket and leggings that were too tight in all the right places. Azira’s feather was boldly displayed around his neck. Crowley did not like the way Gabriel’s indigo eyes raked over his image, but contrived to not let any discomfort show up on his face. “I bring news.”

“I can see that.” Crowley circled him like a hawk. Gabriel let him, never breaking his prim and proper stance for even a second. “Nice suit. Really brings out your eyes.”

“Yes, I’m trying a more modern style. Might as well catch up with the times now before they’re gone for, well, forever.”

Crowley fell silent. 

“Good news, Raphael. We have reliable information that things are afoot.” 

“And that’s good news how…?”

“It’s the end of times, brother. Finally when heaven can triumph above all else as it should have been. As it should  _ always _ be.” Gabriel pumped his fist into the air a few times. It was painful to watch. “My informants suggest the demon Azira may be involved. Keep him under observation, will you? Without him knowing of course.” 

“What am I? An idiot? I’ve been doing it since the beginning.” 

“There’s a good angel.” Gabriel stole forward to muse his hair in a way so humiliating it made Crowley feel like attempting murder in cold blood. He squawked and slapped Gabriel’s hand away.

“You know, I’ve always worried for you, little Raphael.” Before Crowley could move away, Gabriel tackled him once more to settle a heavy arm over his shoulder. “Such an odd one. Even from the very start. It’s a miracle seeing how well you handle your work here on earth.”

Crowley exhaled through his nose. He could see Gabriel’s trademark beautiful smile even without looking at him. “I know. Miracles are what we do.” 

“Okay!” Crowley finally managed to wrestle himself free. He stabbed an indignant finger skywards. “Out.” 

Gabriel held up his hands in surrender. Stupid prick. Pretending to be such an oh so good big brother when they both knew otherwise. 

“Fair warning, brother. Don’t mess this one up.” His low voice and eyes were cold. 

That’s more like it, Crowley thought. Empty praises and underlying threats—that was how heaven operated under Gabriel’s staunch leadership. He turned towards the closest pot of roses and pretended to busy himself with pruning. Whatever yellowed leaf he could find he tore out mercilessly, just as the hand of the divine had banished the Fallen. Just like what Gabriel would do to him too, the very instant he disobeyed. 

“If you do...even I won’t be able to stop the others this time.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened. He whirled around. “What—”

Only the terrified rustling of his plants answered him. He hadn’t even realised he was moving until his back hit the opposing shelf and his arms shot out to steady himself, from the pounding of his heart, from the chaos of racing thoughts in his mind. 

He felt afraid for his life, and he didn’t even know why, 

————

Crowley was silent all the way to St Beryl’s convent. Azira did not blame him. He looked terribly shaken after returning from his shop, but was still kind enough to drive Azira where he needed to go. No, he knew exactly what Crowley needed. What they  _ both _ needed—Azira’s secluded library of a home and bottomless glasses of the strongest wine earth had to offer. 

“Is that him?” Crowley pointed to a man loitering about the entrance by a black motorcade car. 

Azira was too wound up to consider it carefully. “Has to be.” 

With a quick miracle, the basket popped into hand as he exited the Bently and headed towards the man. He looked up from lighting a cigarette. 

“I assume your cherished wife is in the midst of going through labour?” 

“Oh yes. They made me go out.” The man blinked owlishly. 

“What room is she in, may I politely inquire?”

“Room three, doc.”

“Righty then. Have a pleasant night.” Azira briefly tipped his fedora. There were more important matters at hand—finding a nun of course, to entrust their Lord’s one and only child to. He glanced around nervously, having gone up and down a couple of stairs in futile effort. 

A delicate voice called him from behind. “Master Azira!”

“Oh, hullo.” He turned round and lifted the basket to hold it up with two hands. The nun scampered over at once to uncover the lid, bringing into view the sleeping child within. 

“Is that him?” The sister sounded positively devout. 

Azira nodded. She reached in to carefully transfer the baby into her embrace, rocking it gently as she arranged the blanket more snugly around its neck. 

“Fancy me holding the Antichrist! Oh, I’d expected funny eyes, or teensy-weensy little hoofikins, or a waddle tail…”

“Take him up to room three, if you don’t mind.” Azira interrupted before he feared the nun got too distracted. “Room three, understand?”

“Room three…” she continued rocking and cooing at the infant in her arms. “Do you think he’ll remember me when he grows up?”

Azira couldn’t help an uneasy laugh. “Oh, my dear. As lovely as it is, pray that he doesn’t.” 

When he returned to the Bently, Crowley affixed him in a questioning gaze as soon as he settled back into his seat. The night was full and complete, yet funnily enough time felt raw as if a brand new beginning had just commenced without the rest of the world realising so. For the humans, just another nondescript day had passed. For heaven and hell however, the final countdown was well at hand. 

“Well.” Azira cleared his throat. He didn’t know where to begin. 

“Fuck.” Crowley summed it all up quite eloquently. 

————

Somewhere in London, an angel and a demon had been drinking solidly for god (and satan) knows how long. They were both gloriously drunk. Neither of them were rather set on thinking after all. 

“‘s gonna win…?” Crowley mumbled. He was lying on his back across the sofa, legs splayed all over Azira’s lap. He held a half-filled glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. 

“...Hmmm...?” 

“Who’ssssss what I meant, Zira. Armageddon. Whooooo. Who’s ugh, gonna win…?”

“We—will win, of course.” Azira rubbed his eyes. 

“Hahhhhh.” Crowley pulled the cork off the bottle with his teeth and drank straight from it, glass in hand forgotten. “ _ Really _ ?”

“No.” He plucked Crowley’s glass from his hand and downed it himself. “Really doesn’t uh, matter to me. It’s all going to...going to…”

“Shit.” 

“Lan’uage, Crowley. What...about you? Who’d you think ‘uld win?”

“Don’t wanna think about it.” He threw an arm over his eyes and groaned. His glasses were discarded somewhere. Where? He couldn’t remember. 

A hand started to rub his foot fondly. “Darling. Dearest. Dear?”

“Hmmmmm…?” Crowley was made drunker by the scent of Azira on the cushions. He wanted to remain here forever. 

“Eleven years. Till the end of the world.” 

Without his consent tears began to prick at the corner of his eyes. Just eleven more years. Even if he could find it within himself to ignore the tragic plights of all humans, he could never imagine being forced to live a life without Azira. It was unfair. They were immortal beings—they deserved to have all the time in the world. And now time was the only thing they didn’t have, all because of some stupid war? This couldn’t be the grand ineffable plan that everyone was so excited about. Crowley failed to see its appeal then. He definitely still could not see it now, not when he was only eleven damn years away from losing everything he cared about. 

“Not a very long time,” remarked Azira quietly.

“No.” 

Silence stretched out between them. Crowley was starting to see the inevitable darkness settling. The one he should have been paying more attention to since the beginning; why the hell hadn’t he cherished those simple times more? If he’d known Armageddon was this close, he wouldn’t have gone and slept away a good century just because of a petty spat. 

“But not a very short time either.” 

Crowley’s eyes opened. The tears pulled loose from his lashes and streaked down his face. He heard Azira set his glass down on the coffee table, the rustle of fabric as he settled closer to thumb away those infuriating tears. Crowley closed his eyes again.

“We can do something. Work together, like we always do.” 

“Zira…” he sighed. “This is a little too much, even for the both of us, don’t ya think? This isn’t some quick temptation or blessing, it’s—it’s the grand plan. The divine plan. Mother said…she said…” Said what, exactly? He wondered if she had ever told them. “Can’t mess with it.”

“Perhaps not.” Fingers threaded through his hair softly. “But what about diabolical ones?”

“‘m listening.”

“No one can technically blame us for thwarting the actions of the other. So that’s what we’ll do with the Antichrist—cancel each other out! You know it better than me, Crowley, that humans are wonderful the way they are because they have the power to do both good and evil inside of them.”

The idea hit him. Crowley hastily scrambled up to a sitting position. “It’s the upbringing that matters.”

“Precisely, dear boy.”

“He won’t be evil. Or good.” He glanced down at both his palms and closed them into fists. “Just...normal. Human.” 

Azira nodded. “The best thing to be.”

“We could oversee his upbringing! Be godfathers, sort of!” Excited now, Crowley could see a little more light entering his previously desolated world. He caught Azira’s hand in both of his, brought it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “It might work. It might actually work.” 

“Godfathers.” Azira mulled this over. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

They stared at each other for a minute. 

“Oh, wait.” He realised airily. “I already am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *doesn’t write for weeks then one-shots this until I collapse from exhaustion and doesn’t proof-read*
> 
> Hey guys ;’) I survived finals. I’ll try to finish this fic ASAP now cause I don’t really want to stretch it out too long (been a couple of months since I started). Expect more updates soon!! Meanwhile, thank you so much for reading ^^


	12. 2012 and a little to the end of the world

**2012 - The Dowling’s Residence **

It was late afternoon. The tangerine light currently slanting through the windows was angled in such a way against the examination bed that Warlock had to shield his eyes. He was bruised. He was in tears, and more than a little foul-tempered at the moment. 

“My tummy hurtssss, Dr An’ony.”

“An-tho-ny.” Crowley enunciated. The child was at an age where perfecting his pronunciation was the key to a successful early education. He knew because he read up on it, and he read up on it because he wanted to be professional. Definitely not because he tended to the soft side when it came to kids as Azira accused—no, that would be ridiculous. He was playing a rich family’s private doctor, snobbish and proud, who regarded everyone with an air of disdain. And not even Young Master Warlock would be spared from it. No, absolutely not. 

“That’s what you get for always getting into fights, you little shrimp.” Crowley kicked his chair off into a swivel to face Warlock on the examination bed. The latter averted his gaze nervously. He secretly knew Dr Anthony was all bark but no bite, and that the menace in the perpetual scowl on his face would be smoothed over by the gentleness of his movements. And Dr Anthony always did move about with such grace. Under the light his short-cropped hair would be set ablaze and the gold of his eyes would pour out from the sides of his glasses, painting him as a perfect image of an angel. 

Warlock did believe it sometimes. That his doctor was an angel. He found that whenever he prayed to Dr Anthony every night, his wish would always come true the morning after. Except that time he wished Nanny Esmeralda would catch a flu so he could have a few days of freedom. Nope, that wish backfired on him. So from then on he only hoped for good things, kind things, like a new animal friend in the garden or pretty sunflowers outside his window when he woke up.

“Avery started it first.” Warlock pouted. “He called me a mollycoddle. Stupid Avery. I bet it’s ‘cause he’s dirt poor and I’m not—ow ow ow ow!”

Dr Anthony had started rubbing ethanol into his wounds. Hard. Warlock realised he must have said something he shouldn’t.

“What did I say about using this kind of language?” 

Yet another odd thing about his family doctor—inexplicably strict about Warlock’s behaviour as if he were the second nanny himself.

“Dr An’ony said that I must speak with love and respect for all living things.”

“Good.” He applied yellow plasters with the design of ducks wearing sunglasses on them onto Warlock’s scrapes. 

“And I must treat others like how I want others to treat me.”

Dr Anthony smiled. He did this rarely. So much so in fact, it made Warlock feel very good about himself whenever this happened. A hand landed on the top of his head, ruffling his hair affectionately. 

“Now you’ve got it, little shrimp.” Dr Anthony pushed himself back to his desk to note things down on his papers. Displeased by the sudden lack of attention, Warlock clutched his stomach and whined once more.

“My tummy still hurts, Dr An’onyyyyyy.”

Crowley reached for the jar by his computer. He pulled out a lollipop, blessed it with a pain-relieving miracle and handed it to the child. Naturally, Warlock did not suspect a thing. 

“Yay, lolly.” The boy sucked on his sweet happily. After a thoughtful moment of rolling around the examination bed, he bounced off and skipped towards the door, all cuts and bruises miraculously healed and pain long forgotten. 

“Young Master Warlock?” Crowley called. 

“Hmm?” 

“What’s your dear Nanny Esmeralda up to now?”

“Oh!” Warlock chirped innocently. “Nanny said no crime should go unpunished, Dr An’ony. She said I should release my wrath on Avery as I please.”

Crowley lowered his glasses fractionally. “Don’t listen to her, little one.” He lifted up his index finger and pressed it against his curled lips. “Listen to me.” 

———

“Here we go,” Nanny Esmeralda cooed, smoothing out the plaid blanket around Warlock’s shoulders snugly. “All tuck-tuck-tucked into bed, my little dear.”

His nanny was perhaps the softest being he had ever seen in his short five years of life. Her snowy hair hugged the roundness of her face in thick curls, most of it tucked neatly under a blue bonnet. She wore a navy waistcoat, collar held in place by a large black ribbon, and her grey skirt was very long and very puffy. 

“And here’s brother bear.” Nanny snuggled a teddy-bear with (devil) horns into his arms. “Now is it time for sleep-sleep?” 

“No sleep-sleep before a bedtime story.” Warlock pouted. 

“Very well then.” Nanny chuckled softly. She drew out a chair from under his bed and sat down delicately upon it, the folds of her skirt gathering and spilling down to the floor in cascades of grey. She cleared her throat gently. “Once upon a time, there lived a happy young boy named Warlock.” 

Warlock’s eyes fluttered shut contentedly. 

“One day, he decided that destroying the earth seems like a very good idea indeed! And so he did exactly that. Then doom! Darkness! Blood! Brains! The end.”

“Nanny?” He stifled a yawn. 

“Yes, dear?”

“Dr An’ony says I must be kind and nice to everybody. I don’t think he wants me to destroy the earth, ever.” 

His nanny hid a smile behind her hand as she leaned down to peck him on the forehead. She brushed the stray locks of hair away from his face and tucked them behind his ears gently. “Oh, don’t listen to that sweet man, my darling. _ Listen to me _.” 

————

It was a fact sealed in stone that in this mansion, the family doctor and nanny simply did not get along. They hardly saw each other. Their job scopes barely overlapped. There was no conceivable reason as to why they hated each other so much, hence people tended to get curious. But from the way they glared at the other with every opportunity and argued to daybreak during weekly staff meetings, the other servants eventually decided not to pry. They’d likely get chewed out while caught in the middle if they did. 

Unbeknownst to them, Dr Anthony and Nanny Esmeralda spent many a nights together in the latter’s private chambers across the mansion’s back garden. The occupants of the house knew not the clandestine nature of their relationship, nor the fact that the two of them weren’t even remotely human. It was best not to complicate things for the mortals. For now and the foreseeable future, Azira and Crowley’s real association was both their little secret to keep. 

“Oh, my back hurts from picking up Warlock’s toys all day. And he does have a dreadful lot of them.” Azira undid the ribbon around her collar with a sigh. Now with a strong glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, she planned on staying like this on the plush sofa the entire night. That is, until the headache derived from chasing after a five-year-old all day had dispelled for good. 

“Come here.” Crowley spoke from behind her, taking hold of her shoulders to let her lean against the sofa back. He applied a bit of pressure then into the dip of where her shoulder met her neck, rubbing down onto that one tendon which was causing a great deal of pain. 

“Hmmmm,” Azira remarked appreciatively. “You certainly did earn your credentials as Archangel of Healing, my dear.”

“I didn’t earn them. I was born with them,” snorted Crowley. He moved to her other shoulder. 

She swirled her glass and took a sip. The fireplace nearby was alight, and Azira was lost in the dancing flames for a long contemplative moment. “Crowley...we _ are _ doing this right, aren’t we?”

“The boy seems pretty normal to me.” His lean hands worked out the kinks in her shoulders. Azira rolled her head back and sighed. “Heavenly influences balancing out the hellish, a good no-score draw.”

“Hope you’re right,” she murmured sleepily. Her glass was plucked out of hand by Crowley, who rounded about to sit down next to her and finish the whiskey. Their free hands found each other and naturally interlaced. “Six years hmm...left to go.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers. A blanket materialised in mid-air and draped over them both. He took Azira’s head towards his shoulder, holding her close. “I know, angel. I know.” 

How fragile the world seemed when they sat side-by-side like this. How precious everything became, and then all of a sudden all he could think about was all that he could lose. 

————

**The present - 4 days to the end of the world **

There was a particular plant nursery in London exceptionally difficult to purchase anything from. It was run by a certain flame-haired man who was eccentric to say the least—always wearing colourful shades indoors, not to mention branded jackets and designer clothes that likely outvalued his entire business. The locals knew the owner as Mr A.J Crowley, who quickly earned a certain rep in the neighbourhood. A sharp tongue. Far kinder than he looked. And most definitely married to the lovely Mr Azira Fell who more often than not would be seen reading in a worn armchair behind the counter. 

The golden bells on the front door tinkled. Azira looked up from his book, momentarily setting aside his reading glasses to meet the customer in the eye. They certainly deserved intimidation points. Dressed in full black leather, complete with silver spikes on the shoulder pads and wrist cuffs, the young but terrifyingly burly man stuck out like a sore thumb among the delicate flora surrounding him. Azira moved slightly to glance behind the man. An enormous motorcycle was parked outside, engine still roaring like that of a resting beast. 

Azira gently shut his book. “Darling?” He called towards the back of the shop. It was Crowley’s private garden, housing an impossible number of beds where flowers, shrubs and whole fruit trees flourished under the watchful hands of an angel. He often preferred shutting himself in there instead of dealing with customers. 

“_ People are more of your thing, angel, _ ” Crowley had remarked offhandedly once. “ _ For me, it’s all about stars and plants _.” 

“Just a sec!” A dismembered voice answered. Azira took the time to face the young man on the other side of the counter again. He offered a placid shrug. Poor bloke. He probably came in here hoping to bring home some decent potted plant with minimal fuss, but he’d count himself lucky if Crowley even let him leave without a thorough glance-over. An archangel’s searching gaze could reveal much about a person—their personality, upbringing, and _ especially _ their experience in horticulture. Crowley raised every plant in the shop himself; he took the transaction as seriously as marrying off one of his children. 

“Here to buy something, are you?” He hid a smile. Crowley would most definitely have something to say about that. 

“I’ll try my luck.” There was sincerity in the man’s quiet voice. Azira raised a brow. 

A door opened behind him. “Whassup, angel?” Crowley was still dusting the soil off on his green apron. Underneath that he was wearing a Gucci suit, but that's besides the point. His face was endearingly flushed, runaway locks of hair which had escaped from his bun plastered to his damp face. He was gorgeous like this. Azira thought about kissing him on the spot but spared a thought for the poor man in their immediate vicinity. 

Instead, he calmly reclaimed his spot on the armchair and picked up his book. “You have a customer.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Tiny Pete.” 

“Aye, it’s me again Mr Crowley. I wassa just hoping you could see how the little fella’s doing.” The man lowered his clenched fists onto the glass countertop and unfurled them slowly. A tiny cactus peeked out from between the gaps of his scarred fingers. It wore a proud crown of delicate purple flowers.

Crowley held it up against the light to examine it. “‘s fine. You’re doing a good job.” 

“Really?” Tiny Pete clasped his hands to his chest. “Then can I…”

“Yup.” Crowley tip-toed to reach for the tray of miniature succulents on the highest shelf. He chose one after careful consideration and slid it across the counter gently. The man’s club-like hands trembled as he took a plump leaf between his fingers. He stroked the fine hairs of the plush plant with almost religious reverence. 

“She’s...so small. And so fluffy.”

“She’s all yours. Free of charge, as always. Take good care of her.” Crowley crossed his arms and nodded. 

Tiny Pete gathered up the succulents in his hands as if they were newborn puppies. He left with what were unmistakable tears in his eyes, and carefully tucked the plants into the basket of his bike. He threw both him and Crowley a jovial wave. Then with a noisy rev of his monstrous engine, the man sped off in a cloud of dark smoke. 

Crowley still had the soft smile on his face. Azira couldn’t help but drift over, settling his chin on the angel’s shoulder as he tenderly hugged his waist from behind. He smelled like earth, the molten light of the sun and beds of blooming spring flowers. 

“You look happy,” Azira observed. 

“He used to be an addict, y’know? Then one day he just sort of wandered in here looking all lost.”

It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. People from all walks of life would find themselves irresistibly drawn to the sanctuary of Crowley’s shop as long as there was something they were desperately praying for in their hearts. Just as Azira could not conceal his true nature, a certain aura radiated off Crowley in waves that seemed to promise one what they could be searching for. Love. Forgiveness. Repentment. His divine influence was a powerful force. Many had simply stumbled in as if called by a siren’s tune, then promptly broke into tears without knowing why. 

Crowley never turned them away. He’d invite them in to sit, have a cup of chamomile (home grown), and when they permitted it, talk about what was troubling them. Sometimes all people really needed was a kind, non-judgemental listening ear. And Crowley was the best at that. Right from the start he was a listener, a thinker, who mulled over every word carefully and asked endless questions. He was not one to ever give orders, despite his high standing in heaven. He took everything in stride and never grew resentful. Even when banished to earth by his own brother, he learned to live alongside the mortals and Azira himself; not just to tolerate them. He took the extra mile himself and befriended them. 

Crowley had something most angels did not—a heart of true, intrinsic kindness; utterly unconditional and not written anywhere in the rules of heaven. 

“I told him he could change if he really wanted to.” The archangel shrugged. “He said he was bad with plants, so I gave him one and told him to come back again if he managed to get it to bloom. It proves something, y’know? This is the fifth time I’ve seen him. He looks better every month.”

Azira pecked his cheek. “You really are a nice person, aren’t you darling?”

“Shut upppp.” Crowley groaned. “It’s what angels do. Lots of good _ deeds _.” 

“No, dearest. It’s what you choose to do.” 

Crowley blinked. He turned to meet his eyes as if in questioning, then flushed into an endearing shade of red. 6000 years and he still couldn’t seem to take a compliment. 6000 years and here they were, still together, hailing from the most opposite sides as opposites could get and yet defying it all just to be able to stand side by side. 

“You never change,” Azira remarked. He reached up to fix Crowley’s rumpled shirt, miracling away any smears of dirt or wrinkles. “Will you wear your hair long today?”

Crowley shook his head. He took off his sunset-tinted glasses to stash them carefully beside the register. 

“Don’t look so down.” Azira thought for a moment. Then snapping his fingers, he drew a grey waistcoat around Crowley’s shoulders and fixed a bolo tie around his white collar for a touch of elegance. “It’s only going to be a few minutes.”

“You don’t have to see Gabriel’s stuck-up face.” He sneered. “And Sandalphon. Michael. Uriel. What is wrong with archangels?” 

Azira did a twirl and exchanged his comfy cashmere sweater and slacks for a formal navy suit. He let Crowley straighten his tie for him as he hid his necklace behind his dress shirt and donned a fedora. “Would you rather take my place instead in hell?”

“Sure. Always wanted to meet Lord Beelzebub. Gabriel can’t shut up about them.”

“It would appear he can’t shut up about a great many things.”

“Now you get it. Shall I give you a lift to Head Office?”

“Sworn enemies do not report to work together, dear. Especially not in the same car.” 

Crowley made a face. “Oh. Right. But we’re still having dinner afterwards right?”

Azira hummed and parted from his angel with a chaste, loving kiss. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you then.” 

The demon took his leave first. Crowley watched the clock intently for the passage of five minutes before he got into the Bently and started the engine. He never enjoyed the drive to Head Office, no matter how thrilling it became when he stepped flat on the accelerator and cruised down the pavements. Not a single fly was hurt in the process of course. He parked a block away from the building. Was it illegal parking? Of course not—angels could do no wrong even if they tried (as Gabriel always liked to say, even though Crowley had seen it being debunked time and time again). 

He jogged to catch up with Azira. Not because they knew each other. No, of course not. He reached for the door and pulled it open, clearing his throat pointedly. He indicated his back smugly. “After me, foul fiend.” 

Azira’s lips twitched. However his face remained utterly impassive, disgruntled even, as he stepped aside to let Crowley in first. The receptionist looked up when they entered. Satisfied by the respectable distance between them as they strode towards the twin escalators, she leaned down towards her microphone and reported surreptitiously the entrance of Demon Azira and the Archangel Raphael. 

The surface of the polished marble floor rippled like water. Azira’s heel began to sink; Crowley’s remained afloat. Soon they advanced far enough to each take their respective escalators. The journey to heaven and hell had begun. 

————

**Down below**

He had to take this meeting seriously. It wasn’t any old courtesy-call to one of the dime-a-dozen demon lords, but an official report to the Prince of Hell themself. All denizens of the fiery pit would be present today to hear what he had to say. Azira felt a sickening unease churn in his stomach as he walked through the dim corridors. The dilapidated walls were closing in on him. He felt afraid in a way he hadn’t for a long time, a kind of deep paralysing fear that seized hold of his throat and simply wrung the life out of it. A primal fear. An old fear, one that Crowley had chased away with his ever-encompassing love which now flooded back in awful, violent waves. 

Azira was no good on his own. He knew that, he knew it too well, but he had gone to a place where Crowley could not follow. And it would be selfish of him to expect him to. 

He had to be strong now. If Crowley was here he’d say the same. Azira closed his eyes and drew power from the connection he knew would always hold steadfast between him and the Archangel. He sucked in a breath. Let it hiss out between clenched teeth. Then abruptly, he seemed to find easier footing in his solemn march to the throne room. 

He threw the double doors wide open. Dozens of eyes—reptilian and beast-like—immediately swivelled to meet him. Azira squared his shoulders. Kept his gait calm as he deftly weaved through the crowd and presented himself before the room. 

Beelzebub’s sprawl on the throne was unceremonious. With cheek pillowed in one palm, they spoke, “Tell us about the boy.” 

Azira bowed his head. “Warlock’s a remarkable child, my Lord. If I were to be bold, I would say the war is as good as won. Heaven hardly stands a chance.”

Clamour immediately broke out. The demons on either side of the red carpet began jostling and making wolf-whistles. Azira inwardly rolled his eyes. It seemed Beelzebub mirrored his sentiments. They endured this for a solid minute before ending the din with an impatient wave. “Shut it, shut it all of you!”

Ligur and Hastur prowled forth from wherever they previously lurked. Their faces looked highly sceptical. Fair enough; distrust was part and parcel of demon decorum. Azira respected it no matter how tiresome it always was. 

“Is he evil?”

“Killed anyone yet?”

Azira disguised the nervous fumbling of his hands as irritation. “Don’t be a simpleton. There’s more to evil than cold-blooded murder as we all know.”

He let the audience murmur their consent before continuing loudly, “Yes, the boy is evil, fantastically evil. I shall dictate it so that his first kill would be one of the Archangels.” 

The words tasted sour on his tongue. He offered a silent apology to Crowley. Nevertheless, his words elicited the right effect—the demons _ loved _ it. Hastur and Ligur were shoved towards the back by the swarm of hellish entities who all rushed forward to shake Azira’s hand (and steal a ring or two, but he pretended not to notice). But most important of all was the satisfied, barely-there smirk on Beelzebub’s spotty face, one that informed Azira that he could still live to see another day. 

“Well done, Azira. Then I’ll leave the boy’s hell-hound to you. Release it whenever you like. That is all.”

“Very good, my Lord.” 

Beelzebub stood up from their throne and strode past without a backward glance. Ligur and Hastur followed, but added a hard brush against Azira’s shoulder into the mix as they passed. Azira set his jaw. He straightened his tie and his coat. 

A sigh eased out of his chest. He wondered how Crowley was faring on his end. Oh, but at least it didn’t reek of sulfur in heaven, nor were there any man-eating hounds locked up in cages and driven to insanity by starvation. What could be worse? 

————

**Up above**

Crowley wanted to go home. The sheer emptiness of Heaven’s office made his skin crawl as if there was constantly something leering at him from behind whenever he paid no attention. Gabriel’s office was empty apart from the Archangels present at the scene, mainly Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon and himself. No one liked a crowd. Still, Crowley felt suffocated despite the abundance of cold space around him. 

The four Archangels stood with their backs against the light. It left their faces in shadow which he could be partially grateful for, so as to notice as few of their features as possible. 

Everyone was in a suit. Except him of course, blast it. At least Azira had dressed him in a waistcoat this time. Crowley endeavoured to hold his chin a little higher. 

“Right. Um. Everything’s _ fine _, basically.” He professionally sifted through papers in his hands that were definitely not blank. “The world’s still ending, which sucks, but the Antichrist kid is being influenced towards the light.”

Gabriel raised a brow and clapped politely. But when the other angels joined in it just seemed obnoxious. 

“Commendable, Raphael. Very commendable. I’m glad you’re finally taking some initiative in your work for once.” 

“Yes, quite praiseworthy indeed.” Sandalphon interjected with a raise of his hand. “But futile. And obviously doomed to failure.” 

Crowley offered the Archangel a subtle-not-so-subtle murderous glare. Everyone pretended not to notice this. He decided to point out testily, “Contrary to popular belief, I do not intend on failing. Do I look like I want the world to end?”

“You are the Archangel of Healing, Raphael. We do not blame you for failing to understand the concept of wars,” said Michael. The sad thing was, she was actually trying to be nice. “Yes, wars are to be won. Ultimately the Antichrist will still turn to the dark side and destroy the world.”

“It is written.” Gabriel nodded helpfully. 

If Crowley was another angel, he would have bowed his head obediently and pray to Mother that she could keep his temper in check. But he’d been the worst of the bunch since the start. He flung his arms up so dramatically Sandalphon took a wary step back, then sighed loudly while pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, cool. It’s noted. With thanks. I’ll just keep doing whatever I’m doing regardless of whatever you have to say about it.” 

“Raphael—”

Crowley was already storming off. 

“_ Raphael _.”

Something in Gabriel’s tone made him freeze. Shit shit shit shit. He turned on the spot, shoulders hunched, gaze barely managing to leave the floor.

“Your duty is to the Almighty, and the Almighty alone.” His violet eyes were wide and glassy. Crowley’s heart seized so hard in his chest he had to clutch a fistful of his shirt. “There will be a price to pay if you forget.”

Crowley glanced away first. He did not answer. But the quietness of his gait as he hastily exited coaxed a slow smile across Gabriel’s face. 

————

**Dinosaur park, nearing evening **

“Darling,” Azira asked worriedly as he filled Crowley’s fifth glass to the brim, “Are you quite alright?”

Crowley had put his lilac shades back on. The bolo tie was discarded, collar of his shirt popped wide open and hem untucked from the waistband of his pants. He looked positively in the dumps. And if Azira could see through the harsh reflection of his shades, he was pretty sure the Archangel was crying. 

“Look.” He pointed down at the red-brick path where Warlock Downing and his mother were engaging in an argument over the dumbness of dinosaurs. The boy looked fairly grown. Azira could scarcely believe he had held the same child in his arms just a measly few years ago. “It’s normal. He’s normal. What plain, ordinary kid doesn’t like monsters?”

Azira rubbed his shoulder gently. “There, there. Don’t you worry, my dear. Absolutely nothing will go wrong on Wednesday. We’ve both done our jobs right, haven’t we?”

“Oh god.” Crowley joined his palms and pressed them to his lips. “Oh mummy dearest. I hope so.” 

“Have I told you that there’s going to be a hell-hound?” 

“No. Not at all.” 

Sensing another rising wave of distress, Azira said quickly, “It’s just a small gift from hell. To trot by his side and protect him from all harm. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

“No, no no no.” Crowley shook his head feebly. He downed his glass of wine and snatched the bottle from Azira’s gasp. He proceeded to empty it effortlessly. “Ya can’t fool me. The hell-hound’s the key. If he names it, he’ll get all his powers and Armageddon will come hitting us like a truck.”

Azira gently distengled his fingers from around the bottle neck. He let Crowley take his hand instead, and calm himself with the comforting warmth of another living being. “He might send it away unarmed. You never know. Besides, there’s a fool-proof way of stopping it.”

Crowley stared at him oddly. He barked a laugh. “Kill the boy, you mean? Haha. Nice one. Wait.” His eyes widened. “You’re serious.” 

Azira shrugged. “Sure. I could do it, I don’t see why not. I have the highest kill streak in hell, you know. It’s one of my greatest achievements to boot.” 

Crowley looked unconvinced. “Right...and how many of those deaths are real?” 

“...”

“Thought so. It’s alright, angel.” The hand in his traced soothing circles on the back of it. “You don’t have to kill anyone. I know you don’t want to. I could stop the dog.” 

“Hmm.” Azira considered this. A wonderfully brilliant idea struck him. “You could show up as a magician. Kids these days love magic!”

Crowley deliberately gazed elsewhere with a pained sigh.

“I don’t think I can trust the words of an old man who spent the last few centuries holed up at home reading.”

Azira pinched his arm. “Got any better ideas, then? Or even just one single better idea?”

“...”

He grinned sweetly. “Thought so.” 


	13. The final hours

**Wednesday - 3 days to the end of the world**

Birthday parties—annual rites to celebrate the coming of age of feisty eleven-year-olds, but more importantly a convenient way to flaunt your family’s wealth and status. A huge canvas tent had been set up in the mansion’s back garden. It felt odd for Crowley to return to this familiar estate for a number of reasons. 

One, he was posed as a phoney magician. 

Two, the child he had watched over from birth did not recognise him. 

And three, Azira—who should obviously have been up here instead of him—was lurking between the tables of cakes and presents and giving him a thumbs-up whenever he could. It was humiliating. As far as he could tell, none of the eleven-year-olds were even enjoying this wreck of a show as much as the demon was. How unbecoming of an archangel, mourned Crowley, to stand on a tiny stage and perform acts of bogus tricks! He’d much rather be weaving stardust between his fingers than pulling roses from his sleeves.

He sighed inwardly. Unbelievable—the things he’d do for Azira just because of those pleading blue eyes. 

“Behold, my top hat. How impressive,” drawled Crowley with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He set the hat down on a round table and sighed loudly, seeming inexplicably but fascinatingly annoyed to his curious audience. They’d never met a magician who so willingly pointed out the stupidity in overused parlour tricks. 

“Now you’ll be thinking—course he’s gonna pull out a rabbit next. Sadly, kids, you’re exactly right. I _ am _ going to pull a rabbit from this hat, and I’m going to hate every second of it.”

Crowley reached into the top-hat, barely concealing his disgust. With two hands he scooped out a perfectly-conjured dwarf rabbit, letting out another tired sigh as he presented it to the audience. 

“Wahoo, a rabbit. Where could I possibly have gotten it from?”

A kid raised her hand. “The table!”

“You’re dang right! Don’t let these flashy tricks fool you.” He stabbed a finger against the round table vehemently. “It. Is. Always. In. The. Table.” 

The audience applauded politely. No one was thrilled when Warlock revealed his mother had booked a no-name magician—they’d just collectively decided to start a Minecraft server and kill chickens until the show was over and they could proceed with more interesting things. But shockingly enough, no one was more unimpressed by the show than the magician. A definite uno reverse card. The kids were so utterly confused they ended up actually enjoying themselves. 

“For my next remarkable—ugh—_ trick _, I need a handkerchief. No, seriously. A handkerchief. Who even carries one nowadays?”

Excited murmurs of agreement. Some kids had launched to their feet, waving paper towels in their hands. Crowley acknowledged them with a forced smile, but most of his attention was fixed on a certain demon who was staring at his watch. _ Five, four, three, two, one… _

Crowley tensed. Steeled himself for the most hellish thing to happen. The abrupt pounce of a giant black dog into the ring of children, perhaps, scattering them screaming everywhere? The mass gathering of dark clouds on the sky, thunder roaring and cackling to signal the beginning of the end of the world, maybe?

Nothing happened. 

Azira glanced up from his watch, nervously scanning their surroundings for the sign of a promised hell-hound. There was none to be found. He shot Crowley with a look of incredulity, rapidly turning into panic. 

Crowley blinked. The kids watching him were growing impatient. He didn’t mind them. Sweat dripped down his back. What was this? A trick? A trap? Was hell so irresponsible as to forget sending the one and only Antichrist his precious guard dog? No, that was impossible. 

Right—the kids. It would be awfully suspicious if he’d just darted off the stage and ran off somewhere. The secret service men were watching after all. Reaching into his hat again, Crowley miracled an entire cream pie into existence and held it up into the air. Dozens of eyes were glued on it. They followed even as he moved it from side to side.

“Food fight!” Cried Crowley, and he launched the pie right-smack into the face of a secret service man. Silence. 

Crowley counted to three. 

“Best. Eleventh. Birthday. Ever!” Warlock roared, and from then on it was an all-out war. 

Pandemonium erupted almost immediately; leave it to the kids to absolutely lose their shit. Bowls of jello were grabbed, upended and tossed. Cupcakes were fired around like bullets. Adults were yelling, kids were screaming, and Crowley got a faceful of cake as he dashed blindly through the chaos in search of his demon. 

A hand pulled him aside. He was still trying to blow cake out of his nose when Azira pulled out a handkerchief to dab his eyes. “Oh, that’s my lovely little hell-spawn. Look how fast they grow.” 

Crowley plucked the handkerchief from his hands. “I could use this.“

Azira hid a smile. “My dear, let me.” He wiped a smear of cream off his jaw with a thumb. Flashing Crowley an impish smile, he put it between his lips and licked. His eyes fluttered shut, long lashes casting delicate shadows over the fullness of his cheeks. “Mmm. Butterscotch.”

Crowley felt his face go hot. Okay, this was ridiculous. Why the _ hell _ was he blushing? He wiped the remaining frosting off his face and demanded irritably, “So? Where’s the dog?”

They headed to the Bently, parked in secrecy a distance away from the mansion. Azira climbed in first, fumbling with the alien controls of the radio until Crowley helped him with it. A choppy voice buzzed to life.

“_ And you have a minute to tell us all about fish fingers, starting—hello, Azira. Is something wrong?” _

A stony mask fell over the demon’s face. Crowley found himself surprised by how quickly Azira could shift his demeanour; from lovely and fumbling to cold and distant in mere seconds. 

“To whom am I speaking to?” 

“_ Dagon. Lord of the Files. Master of Torments _.”

“Afternoon, Dagon. I’m calling in regards to the hound.” 

“_ Hound? It should be with you by now. Is something wrong, Azira? _”

Crowley saw the demon tense in his peripheral vision. “No, not at all. I simply wished to pay my compliments. It’s very vicious. Very bloodthirsty.”

The voice on the radio sounded delighted. “_ Of course. I raised it from a pup myself— _”

Azira turned off the radio. He seemed to know how to do that, at least. The two of them settled against the seats without looking at the other. There was something that really needed to be said, but Crowley was stalling in hopes that he wouldn’t have to be the one to state what was painfully obvious. 

Azira inhaled and breathed out sharply through his nose. “No dog.”

“Nope.”

“Wrong boy.” 

“Mhmm.” Crowley bit his lip, nodding severely. He floored the accelerator without so much of a warning; Azira’s chest hit the glove compartment and he swore. Crowley reached sideways to pull him back. Mud and grass flew under the screeching of tires as he swerved sharply onto the main road. From then on, Crowley could hardly think. 

The posh garden estates around them gradually melted into the crowded streets of central London. And he was still going ninety. The only stability he had now was the press of his heel against the accelerator; there was no way he was going to ease up on that. Faster, faster—he needed to go faster where the fright couldn’t reach him, as if he could run away from it all if he just drove fast enough.

A hand gently covered his on the gearstick. The act sobered him up so abruptly he slammed his foot down on the brake, making the Bently pull to a screeching stop right in front of the flower shop. All was dead silent for a moment. Crowley didn’t notice. He wouldn’t even have noticed if a meteor were to fall now, with the cymbals of panic clashing in his skull, making his mind whirl and ache in the most awful of ways. His breaths left him as stutters from between his clenched teeth. He bent over the steering wheel, groaning, burying his head into his arms, trying and failing to gain some semblance of control over himself again. 

“Crowley.”

He was shaking all over. Black spots clouded over his blurring vision. 

“_ Crowley. _” Hands hooked under his arms, and pulled. He was effortlessly moved onto Azira’s lap, the windows of the Bently dimming till only a faint light remained; the glow of his halo. 

“A—angel,” he rasped, clutching the warm hand firm against his front as if it were a lifeline. “I—I’m sorry. Armageddon is days away and I’ve lost the Antichrist and it’s all my fault—”

Crowley braced himself. In his mind’s eye furious violet eyes were glaring at him. Thunder clouds were rolling in, the ground underneath was thinning. All angels knew what that meant. 

He threw helpless arms over his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Gabriel I’m sorry! Please don’t cast me out—mother please, I’m _ sorry _—”

Azira hugged the flailing archangel tighter against his chest, not knowing what else to do and terrified of it. He held and held and held and did not let go until Crowley’s thrashes receded into weak tremors.

“You won’t Fall, my dear,” he repeated again and again, a mantra he prayed with all his heart would reach him. Even if said prayer was burning his chest like hot acid. “You won’t. You did no wrong. Gabriel isn’t here. You’re alright. You’re alright.” 

Crowley finally fell limp against him. His halo dimmed, and its light caught in the tears at the edges of his half-lidded eyes. “But all the humans…”

“What about them?” 

“They will die.” His whisper broke. “We’re the reason for it. Which angel wouldn’t Fall, then? And most of all me, who was supposed to watch over them…”

A high pitched whine cut off the rest of his words. Azira’s head snapped up towards it, eyes blowing wide. He gathered Crowley tighter in his arms. 

The archangel was as sharp as always. “The hell-hound has found its master.”

Azira ducked his head. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t. But he could never lie to Crowley. 

“...yes dear.” 

He closed his eyes. Reached sideways for the handle to push the door open, scooping Crowley out with him. No one paid them any heed as he crossed the pavement and shouldered the glass door of the shop open. A bell tinkled overhead. He weaved himself deftly between pots of roses, stepped over paper fertiliser bags and finally reached the counter. He gently deposited Crowley on the armchair, about to reach for the tin of chamomile—

Static buzzed in the air, accompanied by an aura so foul it could only be purely celestial. Azira did not turn. Instead he vanished instantly with a quick miracle. The tin in his hand clattered noisily onto the floor. It rolled under the counter, stopping by the tip of a beige loafer on the other side. 

“Raphael.” 

Crowley’s breath hitched in his throat. His arms had begun to shake again. _ Not now not now not now. _

A hand—far too cold to be Azira’s—planted firmly down on his shoulder. He almost discorporated on the spot. A couple of porcelain vases on the shelves shattered. Startled, the archangels turned towards the source of the noise. Crowley launched himself to his feet, wings unfurled and every gold feather flaring. 

“Get. The hell. Out.” He hissed between his teeth. 

Gabriel held up his hands. “What’s the matter with your corporation, Raphael? You look pale.”

Sandalphon was stepping closer, sniffing suspiciously at the air. “Something smells...evil.” 

“Is that what happened?” His brother had the nerve to look concerned. “Did a demon break into your shop? Vile, foul creatures—tell me its name and I will hunt it down promptly—”

“Shut up.” Crowley held his forehead, collapsing back into the chair. “Yes, there was a demon. But it’s gone. I killed it.” 

Surprised silence. 

Sandalphon broke it with scratchy, awkward laughter. Gabriel soon joined in with polite applause. “You always did react strangely when you’re made to kill demons. Not doing it often enough, I wager. We ought to toughen you up once you’re back home.”

“Home,” Crowley echoed as if it were a foreign word. He reached for the tri-coloured feather around his neck and gently curled it between calloused fingers. “But I am home.” 

Gabriel turned away from the pot of lilies he was observing. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. Why are you even here?” 

“To inform you that everything’s going according to plan, of course. Now that the hell-hound is loose, the Four Horsemen will be summoned next.” 

Those were the exact words Crowley dreaded to hear the most. Still, he managed a feeble smile and waved a fist in the air. “Wahoo.”

“We’ve waited a long time for this moment, brother.” 

He did not need to look up to see that he was being circled. The archangels prowled with the menace of ravenous panthers, and all Crowley could do was square his shoulders. Yet he was oddly relieved. It just didn’t feel right till Gabriel abandoned all pleasantries and just straight-up started shoving threats in his face. Sometimes Crowley had to envy the demons’ way of handling things—brutal and violent, but at least they were upfront about it. When it came to heaven and its threats, nothing was ever straightforward and everything was your fault. Crowley was sick of it; he’d take a punch in the gut any day than prolonged psychological abuse. 

“Should anything go wrong, the higher-ups will not be pleased,” Gabriel purred into his ear. 

Crowley mustered enough courage to catch him dead in the eyes. “You don’t trust me?”

His brother only drew away and laughed. “Of course I trust you, Raphael. We’re brothers, and more than that, we’re archangels. I love you how I love the Almighty—unconditionally and irrevocably. We’re family, Raphael. Don’t you agree?”

Family. Humans thought of it as something sacred and precious, but Crowley could only associate it with chains. He clutched the edges of the armrests. ”...Yes.” 

The darkness lifted from Gabriel’s eyes. “Thank you for your service as always. I look forward to seeing the end-times with you, brother.” 

Crowley did not ease his grip until the final residues of celestial energy fully dissipated from the shop. Then he all but slumped back against Azira’s chair, coughing into the heel of his palm. It came away stained with red. Archangels were not permitted to lie; he was lucky to have walked this one off with just a smidge of internal bleeding. 

He heaved himself to his feet. There was only one thing he could think of doing. Everything might be shit, but at least sleeping would absolve some otherwise unbearable feelings. With a miracle, he found himself at the foot of his bed and collapsed face-first into the blissfully soft mattress. Darkness. It was far kinder to him than most things were. 

There was a time before first light poured into the universe. It was only him and Her then. There was never another time when he felt freer, younger. Existence was still slowly weaving itself into fruition. At the start of it all everything was quiet; silently, delicately, they brimmed with anticipation of a new beginning. It was all going to change. It was all going to be better. 

And that was the last time Crowley allowed himself to hope.

————

He awoke to fingers sifting through his hair. It was warm. It was safe. Azira was here, breathing, reading, and Crowley’s head was cushioned on his thigh, arms wrapped around his plush middle. A weighted blanket was drawn over them both. 

He couldn’t remember when the demon returned. But it was fine. Azira was here now. 

“Are you feeling better, darling? 

“Mmm,” he grunted, hugging tighter. Azira’s hand slipped down his neck to rub soothingly up and down the expanse of his bare back. Something akin to a purr shuddered through Crowley’s chest. 

“While you were asleep, I did a little poking around. The hospital you drove me to eleven years ago—do you remember? I went back there. Ran into our old friend Sister Mary Loquacious. I think I gave her a bit of fright.”

Crowley heard Azira snap his book shut, and deposit it on the nightstand. The sheets rustled. He loosened his grip momentarily for Azira to lower into bed with him. Now he could properly entangle around the demon as if his life depended on it. Azira’s hand resumed its rhythmic stroking across his back. 

“It turns out there was a bit of a mix-up. Three babies, all looking exactly identical. The real Antichrist must have been handed to the wrong parents.” 

“Did you find him?” He murmured into Azira’s shoulder. 

“No. But I met a lovely young lady on my way back. I was perching on a tree as an owl, you see, and she set down all her things to take lots of pictures. The flash was horrendous. Anyway, she forgot her book.” 

“‘m sure you returned it, angel.” 

“I didn’t.” 

Crowley shifted in surprise. Azira’s hand now returned to the back of his neck, brushing the fine hairs there. He mewled and tipped his head, exposing the curve of his throat for Azira to pepper light kisses on. 

“You will not _ believe _ what book it was.”

“I wouldn't know.” Crowley’s toes curled at the lips against his throat. “I don’t read—ngh—books.” 

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter!” He exclaimed.

Azira was disappointed by the lack of reaction. Crowley couldn’t remain poker-faced though when hands shifted down his sides to cup around his hips. Crowley slung a leg over Azira’s generous curves, pressing closer. 

“The book’s all we need to find the Antichrist. I’ve figured it out. I think I found him, Crowley. His name is…Adam. And his address is four Hogback Lane, Tadfield.”

“Are we going to look for him?”

“No. He’ll be protected from prying occult...and um, ethereal forces.” Azira scratched his chin. “I’ll send a human operative to investigate. It’s best to let the humans find one of their own.” 

Crowley nodded. He felt reassured that a proper plan was in place, at least until his train of thoughts hit a brick wall. “And then what? Kill the Antichrist? I thought it was a joke.” 

Azira glanced away. “Well. When push comes to shove…”

“No, angel. You don’t have to.” 

“I must. I’m the demon here, Crowley. It’s what we do!” 

Crowley’s blood turned cold. He shoved away until he and Azira were at opposite sides of the bed, the distance between them suddenly insurmountable. He pulled himself upright shakily. “He’s a kid. You can’t kill kids.” 

“Even if it’s to save all the other lives on earth?” Azira demanded. “We have to make a choice, Crowley. This isn’t like the other times we managed to find a third option to worm our way through.”

He ran a hand through his hair furiously. The lamp on the nightstand was casting harsh lines of tangerine and black across the bedroom, leaving him in light and Azira in shadow. “Why the hell not?”

“My dear.” The demon‘s eyes slanted. “There is nowhere else to go.” 

Crowley shook his head. “No. No. Big universe; countless possibilities. There has to be another way.” 

“I knew you wouldn't like this. But I _ will _ do it, Crowley. If it’s for you I would do anything—”

“Me? This isn’t about _ me— _”

“It is.” Azira’s eyes blazed like fierce sunlight through sapphires. “I don’t care about the world. I only care about you.” 

Crowley groaned into his hands. He rose from the bed, pacing by the window with a fury that almost left smoke in his tracks. “You’re lying, you stupid, nice de—”

Hands tackled his shoulders. His back hit a solid surface and Azira’s hands firmly planted down on the wall on either sides of his head, caging him in. He was taller, but Azira still raised his head stubbornly to glare up into the archangel’s gold eyes. A faint afterimage of his tri-coloured wings materialised behind his back. They were fanned halfway-out, ebony primaries flaring to jut out from like knives. 

“I’m not nice.” Azira dropped his gaze heavily. He looked pained. “I’m selfish and greedy and I’d burn the world for you. Would you let me, Crowley?”

He dug his nails into the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. The arms around his head drew away slowly. 

“I thought so,” Azira’s voice was soft. “Never mind, my dear. We’ll settle Armageddon on our own, hmm? Seeing as though we can’t agree on a solution.”

Crowley crossed his arms haughtily. “Fine!” 

“Fine.” The demon shrugged on his navy coat. He took the gloves from his pockets and pulled them on, afterwards reaching forward to crank the windows open. The night breeze rolled in. It smelt like the city rain. Bright neon lights of the flashy street caught in the glassiness of those arctic blue eyes. 

“Back to our own sides again, huh?” Crowley said sourly. He moved to tug his hair behind his ear, but realised it was still cropped too short. “Is this what you really want?”

Wings unfurled from the demon’s back. Azira perched himself on the window ledge. He did not turn. If he did, the archangel would see the tears in his eyes. 

“Have a nice doomsday, Crowley.” 

There was a moment when the tip of his wing seemed to brush lightly down the side of Crowley’s jaw. His heart lurched painfully in his chest. Then it was gone. A few ebony feathers scattered in through the window with the wind. Crowley caught one in mid-air by the stalk. He twirled it, felt its soft vane, pressed it against his lips—

And sighed. The stars were as faraway as ever. He had a feeling that after this, he won’t be seeing the demon again for a long time. 

————

**Saturday: the last day of the world**

Gabriel was beaming. The sun was out, shining through the pearly-white clouds. Birds were singing and flitting through the treetops. 

There was nothing like a morning jog on the last day of earth. Gabriel felt he could appreciate whatever he saw today—the stray cats, the tacky park fountain, and yes, even the humans—since none of these would still be here tomorrow. The apocalypse always freshened things up; it’s why he liked it so much. 

He was in a jovial mood. So much so that when he found his brother jogging to catch up to him, his immediate reaction was to flash him a cherubic smile. 

Raphael’s eyes narrowed. There were dark circles under them. He looked put off to say the least. Today he was dressed in a cream blouse and black slacks, collar made neat by a white ribbon looped loose around his neck.

“What is that.” 

“What is what?”

Raphael pointed at his face in disgust, more specially his mouth.

“A smile. I am smiling, brother,” Gabriel explained patiently. 

“I know, but why the hell…?”

“It is because today I simply feel divine! Don’t you? Here, smell that.” He inhaled deeply. “The air is only so fresh today because it knows it’d be gone in…” Gabriel checked his Rolex. “Ah. Less than twenty hours.” 

Raphael was silent. It was very unlike him. 

“What’s wrong? You’re awfully dispirited.” 

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Course there is. We fight. And we win!” 

Raphael pursed his lips. “Anything _ else _ we can do that doesn’t involve a war?”

“There you go again, saying funny things. Wars are made to be won. We’ll get rid of those irksome demons once and for all.”

His brother fell silent again. Something in his eyes were glassy and deeply regretful. Gabriel softened. 

“Go build up some bulk.” He pinched Crowley’s thin arm. Hands made for creating, he noted. Not killing. He was always such a fragile one. “Smiting demons feels great, trust me. You’ll feel a lot better in no time.” 

Raphael scowled. “Thanks a lot.” 

With the beating of wings and a light rain of gold feathers, he vanished. Gabriel offered the air a microscopic shrug. He continued his jog in no less damper spirits than before. 

That is, until he got a certain call. 

Michael’s voice lacked its usual composure. That itself was extremely worrying. “_ There’s some photographs you need to see. _” 

“Is it urgent?”

“_ It’s about Raphael and the demon Azira _ . _ I believe there’s some foul play involved. Downstairs has already been informed. _”

That didn’t sound good. Gabriel frowned. “I’ll be right there.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh I am so bored. Anyone else playing animal crossing?? It’s literally the only thing I’m doing nowadays :/
> 
> Hope everyone’s doing okay during these uncertain times...hang in there!! 
> 
> Also this fic is finally finishing hehe :3c I hope to end it with a bang!! Thanks for reading this far guys ^^ all your comments and kudos are really sincerely appreciated, I love them with all my heart <3


	14. Do not go gentle into that good night

The back area of his shop had been cleared out. In the middle of a large cabalistic circle, Crowley was on his knees, drawing the remaining runes with a blunt chalk. Next were the candles; he aligned them carefully on the circumference of the circle and lighted them. Then he pressed his palms together, held it to his lips, closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. 

“This is the Archangel Raphael. Is anybody there?”

The circle instantly flared to life with blinding white light. Meatron’s monstrously large face materialised over the circle, peering officiously down at him. Crowley settled down onto his knees. He kept his hands pressed against his lips. 

“I need to speak to God.” 

“ _ Speak then. To speak to me is to speak to Her. _ ” 

“No. This is important. Let me talk to her directly.” 

Metatron’s brows twitched. “ _ I am the voice of the Almighty— _ ”

“Quiet,” Crowley hissed, letting some power wash over his words. He hated using his authority as an Archangel to get what he wanted, but this situation left him with no choice. “I want to speak to Mother, do you not understand?”

Fear flashed past Metatron’s face, but only for a second. He smirked instead. “ _ You wish to speak to Her? You? After everything you’ve done? _ ”

Cold washed down his back. His head whipped towards the sound of glass shattering; it seemed to have come from the front door. “What do you mean?”

“ _ Don’t think we are unaware of your treacherous behaviour, Raphael. Did you really think that fraternising with a demon would have no price to pay, even for you? _ ”

Crowley was only half-listening. As Metatron’s ghostly image flickered and laughed, he made a break for the Mona Lisa painting on the wall. There was a safe behind, and inside it was…

“Halt.” A steely voice commanded. “Halt and turn around.” 

Crowley did. He raised his hands into the air as he spun to meet the indifferent faces of two angels. “Can I help you?”

“Archangel Gabriel has given orders to arrest you.” 

“Do not bother putting up a fight.” The angel on the left warned. They were armed with a celestial blade. “We know you can’t. You’ve never been capable of fighting, have you? Even when Archangel Gabriel requested it of you again and again. How shameful.” 

Crowley let out a drawn exhale. He slowly lowered one of his hands and reached behind his back.

“Stop. What’re you—”

In one fluid motion, he caught the hilt of the flaming sword and clumsily sliced it across the air between them. The two angels immediately backtracked, eyes wide. They stared at its bronze blade, the trembling grip Crowley had on its hilt, and the way he held it as if it were a live viper. 

The fear dissipated in its eyes. One of the angels took a steady step forward. 

“Stop right there.” Crowley brandished the sword, backing away. “I still have matters I have to settle on earth. I can’t go back yet.”

The angel took another step. 

“Please! I have to stop the war!” He cried. “Think about Her creations! Have you no sympathy?”

He received an odd look. “The humans are mere pawns in the Almighty’s ineffable game. She will create others like them next time, and dispose of them just as callously.” 

“But we are her children, Raphael,” said the other angel solemnly. “We are all that matters. That is why we have to win the war—”

“Humans aside, what about the demons then?” Crowley retorted hotly. “They were once our family too. Are you just going to get rid of them?”

The two angels exchanged a bewildered glance. 

“Of course. They are vermins that go against everything the Almighty stands for.” 

Azira’s smiling face flashed past his mind. He was overcome by the vision of the kindness in his eyes, the gentleness in his touch as he held the hands of humans and bounced their children on his hip. He never grew disdainful of them, despite what his demonic nature wanted of him. He was never cruel or unjust. He cared for the humans not because he had anything to gain but merely because he saw them as beings who have to be protected—protected from the likes of heaven and hell; beings who saw themselves too superior to ever hold compassion for another. 

And then Crowley’s veins were filled with rage. “Thick of you to say that,” was all he spat before raising the blade past his head and swinging it down with all his strength. It cleaved cleanly into the angel’s shoulder. Blood spluttered onto their ivory robes; they backpedalled with eyes glassy and wide, reaching up to touch their shoulder only for their palm to come away soaked in red. 

“You dare raise a hand against one of your own—” bellowed the other angel, and they pounced forth unsheathing a blade from their belt. 

Crowley didn’t even have time to think. He raised the sword again, tip-first, squeezing his eyes shut. His hands were shoved back by a blunt force. There was an awful sound of fabric and flesh tearing.

He opened his eyes. 

He wished he hadn’t. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” he gasped, stumbling back. The angel had gone and impaled themselves on the point of the sword. He wrenched the blade free, letting it clatter to the ground in a pool of crimson. He caught the angel’s shuddering form before they fell, letting their head rest against his lap. 

“Are you okay? Stay still, let me heal you—”

His hand was batted away. The angel scowled up at him, blood running down the side of their lips. “Let me die. I will not be healed by a traitor.” 

The words knocked all the breath out of Crowley’s lungs. “Are you  _ stupid _ ? Is your honour more important than your life?”

Their eyes slid shut. “I won’t...expect you...to understand…”

They stilled in his arms. Crowley felt like throwing up. He fell back with only his shaking arms holding him up, vision blacking out and blurring at the corners. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. 

“Don’t think that this is over. You...you...you’re dead!”

Crowley stared at the direction of the voice blankly. He couldn’t see past the crippling fear and tears in his eyes. The remaining angel all but fled from the scene, clutching their bleeding shoulder.

He didn’t move for a long time. Couldn’t. Crowley held his head between his hands and rocked himself back and forth, blinking rapidly. His palms were sticky. With blood. He must’ve gotten some of it in his hair now, too—and his face, his shoulders, all over…

_ Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.  _

_ You killed them.  _

_ You.  _

“No, no no no,” he gasped for air that couldn’t seem to get into his lungs. “It was an accident—I didn’t mean it...please…”

He could already imagine Heaven’s reaction when they found out. 

_ The Archangel of Healing killed someone?  _

_ Not just anyone—another angel! _

_ Blasphemy! _

_ He’s been down there too long...corrupted by the demons...humans… _

_ Cast him out!  _

_ Let him Fall.  _

Crowley was on his feet before he could register his own actions. The world spun haphazardly. He grappled the wall to steady himself, heaving harsh breaths in and out. In and out. Through swimming vision, he realised Azira’s sword still lied on the floor. He bent down to pick it up. The hilt was still warm from his grip, damp with blood. 

He hugged it to his chest. Didn’t even feel the pain when the edges of the blade sliced his fingers, merely tightened his hold. 

“Azira.” He pleaded. “ _ Azira—” _

The world was unbearably loud when he stumbled out of the shop. People swerved out of his way and passing cards screeched to a stop as they took in his blood-soaked, ragged appearance, and the crimson-stained sword in his hands. They all gasped and screamed what was true:  _ monster _ . 

Crowley didn’t know how far he walked. Every street looked the same to him, every terrified human face, even the wretched grey of the weeping sky above him. 

“Mother…” he sobbed. The rain fell mercilessly against his face. “I’m sorry.”

A hand planted on his shoulder. Without thinking he whirled around and lashed out with the sword, only for its blade to be halted by an unmoving hand. Crowley stopped struggling. Before he could speak, he was already being shrouded in a navy trench coat. 

“Azira—”

“Hush, my dear.” A heavy arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, hiding the world from view. Crowley ducked his head and leaned closer. 

Azira gave their surroundings one last wary glance, before directing them both into an abandoned alleyway. A rusty tin roof stood overhead, providing momentary shelter. Crowley was curled up into a ball against a heavily vandalised wall, still clutching the sword as if it was his last saving grace. He didn’t even realise his hands were getting all cut up, the daft archangel. 

He lowered himself into a crouch by Crowley’s side. 

“Give it here, dear. You’re getting hurt.” He extended a hand. 

The archangel shook his head furiously. 

“Crowley…”

“I killed someone.” 

Azira’s mind whited out. Around them, the rain continued to pour. 

“Did you hear me?” Hands abruptly lashed out, seizing hold of his collar roughly. “I killed someone!”

Crowley didn’t loosen his hold until Azira curled steady hands around his wrist. His skin was frightfully cold. Crowley then flinched away as if he had been whipped. 

“‘m sorry...I didn’t want to hurt you too…” 

“Come here,” Azira sighed, pulling him back into his embrace. It smelt like iron. “You’re covered in blood.”

“Isn’t mine.” 

“I see.” He tucked his chin over Crowley’s head. “What happened?”

“I...tried...I tried to talk to Her.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

“It didn’t work.”

“Hmm.” 

“And then...two angels came. They wanted to bring me back. I think...I think Gabriel knows about us. They’re coming, Azira.”

He froze. The hand he held behind Crowley’s back curled into a trembling fist. He consciously willed it to relax again. 

Hands pressed up against his chest. “You have to run...they’ll kill you.” 

“And what about you?”

Empty gold eyes stared up at him. They were devoid of light. “It’s the end for me. I killed another angel.” 

Azira caught his own startled expression in the bloodied blade of the sword. 

“Darling. You didn’t kill them.” He gently eased the sword out of Crowley’s grip, quieting his protests. He held it up. Recognising its owner the blade instantly caught aflame, hissing as the rain vaporised in its scorching heat. “The sword will not flame for anyone else. In your hands it was just an ordinary sword. You only discorporated them. They’re alive, my dear.”

Tears pooled in the corners of Crowley’s eyes. He looked afraid to hope. 

“And you acted in self-defence.” Azira thumbed those tears away. “You can’t be punished for that.”

“That means…”

“Yes.” He gave Crowley’s forehead a chaste kiss. “You’re alright. Breathe.”

The archangel finally did. Azira rubbed up and down his back soothingly. On the outside his hands were gentle, expression composed, but inwardly he boiled with rage towards the angels. They should’ve come for him first. Why Crowley? He never did any wrong. Not even if he had been commanded to do so.

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

And that’s exactly why Heaven despised him. He would forever be considered an outcast—enemy even—if something was not done to create a bigger threat. 

Azira knew what he had to do. 

A high-pitched static in the air had them both snapping their heads warily up. Crowley leapt to his feet, shoving his coat back at him, eyes wild and desperate. “They can’t see you here. Go!”

Azira’s smile made him falter. With the tip of his shoe he kicked up the sword, catching it effortlessly out of mid-air. “I’m not leaving you again. Crowley…”

“Angel?” 

The shadow of the rain in those gold eyes were reminiscent of the one that had smiled at him on the Gates of Eden. Azira’s heart clenched painfully in his chest.  _ Anything I do will never be enough to repay the first kindness you showed me then, but I’ll try.  _

“I’m sorry.” 

Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley. Faster than lightning Azira lunged, seizing Crowley by the shoulder and keeping his back pinned against his chest. The blade flew up to press against his throat. Azira steeled himself, then spun them both to face the party of angels streaming into the alleyway. 

He laughed, voice dripping with mirth. “How quick angels are to turn on each other, it seems! Where is the camaraderie Heaven is so proud of? Where are your family ties you claim are unbreakable?”

Gabriel stepped forward. His violet eyes were cold. 

“One must pay for their crimes. Raphael is no exception.”

Azira laughed again. He could see Crowley eyeing him from his peripheral vision, but he ignored him. 

“Did you really think he could be capable of killing on his own?  _ The _ Archangel Raphael?”

The angels exchanged confused glances. Some shrugged. Some shook their heads. Gabriel was unperturbed. “Explain yourself, demon.” 

“Obviously he was under my control.” Azira pressed the blade closer, only for Crowley to tip his head back and made a noise of distress. The angels were horrified. Good—it was working. “It’s awfully careless of you to not watch out for one of your own, Gabriel. Look what poor Raphael’s gotten himself into now.” 

“Zira…” Crowley choked, a warning tone, but Azira shushed him. 

“It was you.” The doubt was clearing from those purple eyes. More certain than ever, Gabriel strode forward and boldly stabbed a finger towards Azira, “How  _ dare _ you? Release my brother or be prepared to face my wrath, demon scum!”

“Release him?” Azira echoed with a smirk. “You must be joking. Raphael and I have been on earth ever since the beginning. He  _ belongs _ to me. Don’t you agree, angel?”

Crowley didn’t reply. He was decidedly not looking at any of them, instead fixing his gaze skywards, seemingly resigned. 

“I will only say this once more. Release him—”

“Uh-uh-uh.” Azira shook his head. “I’m the one with the hostage here. You should mind what you say or do, Gabriel. If you still want your brother alive, that is. Or did you forget what my sword can do…?”

It doesn’t just discorporate celestial beings. It permanently erases them from existence. The angels drew back with a collective gasp. Some of them rounded up on Gabriel, pleading, “Please reconsider, Gabriel! Raphael’s safety is at stake here—”

“I  _ know _ that.” Gabriel spat. His flaming eyes were furious. “Stand down.” He grudgingly told the soldiers at the back. They lowered their weapons. Then, to Azira he said in a low growl, “Play your futile games a little longer, demon. We will win in the end, and Raphael will return to us where he rightfully belongs. Watch your back.” 

The party vanished. Rain returned to the alleyway at full force. Azira exhaled the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and released the man in his arms. 

Crowley was unsurprisingly pissed. “Zira, what the fuck—”

He snatched hold of his hand and pulled. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Tadfield airbase. We’re going to avert the apocalypse.  _ Then _ we deal with Gabriel and his goons.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m fireD up and ready to finiSh thiS babY


	15. Rage, rage against the dying of the light

“Crowley.” 

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but…”

“Noticed what?”

“Your car is ON FIRE!” 

“Oh, that,” he said offhandedly. More important things to worry about at the moment, frankly speaking. He kept his hands steady on the wheel despite the exterior of the Bently going up in actual flames. “Mmm, that’s what happens when I drive through a literal  _ wall _ of fire which is the M25. Whose bright idea was this?”

Azira shifted nervously on his seat. “I think it was mine.” 

Crowley raised a brow. He had his sunglasses on and looked relatively himself again. “Oh? Now I’m impressed.” 

“I just thought, what would Crowley do if he was a demon? And the idea popped up.” 

The archangel hummed in amusement. “I would be an excellent demon.”

Azira chuckled, wiggling in his seat. All his smiles were cherubic, like sunlight filtering through the clouds after a big storm.

“And you, angel, would be an excellent angel.” 

“Oh darling. You flatter me.” 

The radio turned itself on. From it screeched an indignant, repulsive and undeniably demonic voice. “ _ AZIRA. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? _ ”

Crowley gritted his teeth. He wanted to bless the radio to stop any kind of demonic interference, but Azira caught his hand and shook his head with a wink. 

“Hastur! It’s always so lovely when you make a call. Can I help you?”

“ _ The boy Warlock is not the Antichrist! He knows nothing of the great war, not of his father, and he said I smelled of poo _ !”

“I guess I can’t help you then,” concluded Azira. “Goodbye.” 

“ _ You’re dead meat. You’re bloody history— _ ”

“Good day! Toodles.” Azira snapped his fingers and the call disconnected. Hastur’s unholy screeching was cut off unceremoniously. 

Crowley guffawed. “Nice one.” 

Tadfield was a quiet town utterly unprepared for a burning car to pull into their narrow roads. To say that people gawked was a severe understatement. Nevertheless they drove on, following a shell-shocked old man’s directions to the airbase. Azira could feel the remnants of his seat melting away. There wasn’t even a door anymore. Oh dear. Crowley was not going to handle this well. 

The Bently finally gave out at the entrance of the airbase. Azira climbed out before the car could totally collapse, and too long after they both evacuated, it exploded into a cloud of smoke and charred debris. Crowley was distraught. Azira was more concerned about the human guard whose finger was steadily creeping towards the trigger of his rifle. 

Also, was he imagining things or were there other humans here? He was pretty sure he saw four kids on bikes roll through the barred gates like it was nothing. And there was a rather elderly-looking couple riding an old scooter. One was threatening the perplexed guard with his magic finger. 

“Crowley.” Azira backed up warily. “There’s a human trying to kill us, Crowley.” 

The archangel did not move from his kneel on the ground. Azira would name his expression as heartbroken, but surely people do not have their hearts broken over cars. He refused to accept it. The guard was starting to shout about state offences and lifetime imprisonment. 

“Crowley. You’re the nice one. Do something!”

It became apparent he wouldn't budge until he finished his moment. Azira pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh you leave me no choice!”

He snapped his fingers. The guard vanished without even having the chance to express his confusion. 

“There he goes.” Azira shook his head solemnly. “Completely atomised. Rest in peace. Or rather, pieces.” 

“Say that to my Bently, you heartless fiend.” Crowley staggered to his feet. “I know you sent him back home.” 

He withered. “My dear, it’s rude to peek at other people’s miracles.” After a moment, he rested a comforting hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your car.” 

“She was a good car.” He nodded, pursing his lips. “The best.” 

“Ahem.” 

They looked up to see an old man brandishing his index finger at them. Beside him, a woman in a nice dress hastily parked her scooter and stowed the helmets away into the front basket. They were the last people Azira expected to see at the soon-to-be apocalypse. 

“Sergeant Shadwell. Madame Tracy.” 

“Southern pansy.” Shadwell saluted. 

“Hello dears.” The small woman waved. Crowley waved back. 

“This is Crowley, my uh…” Azira faltered. 

“Boyfriend?” Madame Tracy suggested helpfully. 

“Oh! We’re not _ — _ he’s not _ — _ ”

“I like your associates.” Crowley whispered coyly into his ear, making Azira flush. “So are you humans ready for the end of the world?”

Shadwell’s grave expression rivalled that of a seasoned veteran who had witnessed countless wars. He held up his most lethal weapon to their faces. “Never fear, laddie. I’ve got a  _ finger _ .” 

“Right.” Azira marched towards the gates. “Let’s lick—”

Crowley choked. “ _ —kick— _ ” 

“—some serious butt!”

————

Crowley wasn’t so sure of what transpired in the past hour. His memory was terrible when it came to apocalypses, and he was glad he had limited experiences to confirm this. All his frazzled brain could really comprehend was Antichrist—Adam—Satan—we’re fucked!—before his fight or flight response shocked him with enough power to momentarily transport the three of them into the sands of time. 

Their wings were unfurled high into the air; Azira’s pointing downwards, Crowley’s the opposite way. They stepped closer to grab hold of Adam’s hand. It was warm. Human. Brimming with endless potential. He was different from them. His human ancestors had made that first choice to take a bite out of that shiny, red apple, forever freeing the rest of their kind to the improbabilities of their undetermined fates. 

Humans gave themselves choices. Adam could now make that choice—to be a saint, to be a devil, or to be something wholly in between who never stopped trying. 

“You’re the best of the best, Adam,” said Crowley in his soft voice he reserved only for children. “Not Heaven or Hell Incarnate. No, you’re human incarnate.”

“The best thing to be,” Azira affirmed. He had his flaming sword raised and ready to fight for their lives. 

“Adam. Reality will listen to you right now. You have the power to change it all. End it all. But do it fast.”

The child between the angel and the demon nodded. He had a perplexed look on his face. 

“Okay,” Adam sighed, when what he really wanted to say was, “ _ Who are you weirdos _ ?”

The cogs of time began to grind to a start. The seconds were moving again, irreversibly, irrevocably and inevitably forward. The clouds above drifted once more. 

And so the apocalypse continued, and they fought. 

————

Night fell. Daylight properly ended with the apocalypse. The humans have gone home. Satan was back in his pit. Life continued and the earth lived to turn another day. It was all well and good. 

Crowley and Aziraphale were on a bench, sharing old wine. There was a somberness in the air as they passed the bottle back and forth. It never emptied. Crickets were singing from the shadows, the stars above were brighter than lamps. Crowley wondered if it was an illusion of his euphoria, or that the stars really smiled down at them tonight. It was a special day after all; nothing short of miraculous. 

They held hands. He felt an almost unbelievable burst of joy from the simplicity of the touch. They were holding hands, after the end of the world. 

Everything would be fine. 

“What’s that, my dear?” Azira leaned in, close enough for his temple to brush Crowley’s shoulder. He rested his head upon it. Crowley in turn leaned his head against Azira’s. 

“I think Agnes Nutter has one last thing to say to us.” He turned the singed fragment of paper this way and that between his fingers. 

“ _ When all is said and done, you must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough you will be playing with Fire, _ ” Azira read, breath close enough to tickle his cheek. “What do you suppose it means?”

Crowley shrugged. It was hard with a head on his left shoulder. “Beats me. I’m done thinking today. It’s time to get—” he noisily chugged down at least half the bottle. It refilled instantly. “—wasted.”

Azira laughed softly. Then he was silent. If Crowley was less tired he would have noticed and said something about it, but they were both exhausted, and he figured a good night’s sleep was all they needed to get everything back to normal again. If only the damn bus bothered to show up. He didn’t want to use any miracles in case it gave away his location; right now he was done with Heaven and Gabriel and all their bullshit. If they wanted to see him again, they'd have to wait a few business-centuries like civilised men. 

“I love you, Crowley.” 

The words breezed past him with the night wind. It lifted the locks of his already curling hair, warming his cheeks. His eyes blew open, wide and vulnerable. Azira didn’t look away once. A pool of blue light swirled like a whirlpool at the bottom of his irises. 

Crowley’s heart clenched painfully. He didn’t know why, but he seared this moment into his brain as if it would suddenly become invaluable the second it was lost. 

“W—whatcha sayin’ that for?” He remarked lightly, despite the growing darkness in his chest. 

Azira didn’t respond. Cool fingers gently turned Crowley’s face towards his, and gentle lips pressed against his own. The kiss was prolonged, sweet, yet shallow as if Azira was afraid to go any deeper. It would be harder to pull away then. Impossible, even. 

That was what’s bugging him, Crowley realised. Azira was saying goodbye. 

“Angel—”

The hand on his face wandered up to his hair. It curled into a tight fist. Crowley’s eyes shut in the pleasure and the pain, so he did not see the tears that silently slid down the demon’s face. Then all too soon, the intoxicating warmth was gone. 

Crowley thought he could freeze in his midnight chill. Azira didn’t look his way again. He handed his sword over, hilt first, giving the bronze blade one last affectionate stroke before pulling away completely. His face was blank. 

The demon stood up. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his navy coat, adjusting his fedora such that it shadowed his eyes. The wind howled past once more. Azira turned towards it, away from him, chin lifting, brows slanted. The blue of his eyes gleamed under the light of the lamppost. 

“It’s yours to keep.” His back said to him. 

“Azira?” 

The hurt must have shown in his broken plea. 

He softened. “I believe my soul is in that sword. That’s the only place it could’ve gone. During the Fall…I held onto that sword with all my strength. Even as my feathers and Grace burned away.”

Crowley caught his own terrified expression in the blade. Even after six thousand years it did not lose its shine. Azira must have polished it everyday after getting it back.

“Why are you telling me this?” His grip tightened on the hilt. It was still warm with Azira’s touch. 

“My dear…”

The leaves rustled violently. Crowley sensed the shift in the air and he gasped. He wanted to launch to his feet, wanted to sprint over and snatch hold of Azira’s hand and lead them far, far away from here, but he couldn’t move. Not with a certain demonic spell holding him perfectly still. 

He swore. “Damn it, Zira! Let go of me!”

The demon shook his head. He smiled sadly. “My soul’s in the sword, Crowley. That way, when I’m gone, know that I’ll never truly leave your side.” 

Crowley strained against the spell with every cell in his body screaming in effort. He cried, “ _ Azira _ !”

“Crowley!” Azira retorted, just as enraged. “Shut it. Let me do this for you.  _ Please _ .”

The finality in his voice was paralysing. There was no changing his mind. Crowley slumped back against the chair, scowling up towards the night sky, all the while furious tears blurred the constellations into broken fragments of fading lights. 

A circle of celestial light cast down on them. Angels descended, Gabriel leading the small party, expression smug. They landed soundlessly upon the path. Instantly the angels rounded on Azira, forcing his hands behind his back, restraining his shoulders. He was forced in front of Gabriel with a grunt. 

Without warning, the Archangel lunged forward to punch him in the gut. Azira gasped, knees buckling. The angels forced him down onto the dirt in a kneel. 

“That’s for what you did to Raphael,” Gabriel said vehemently. “And—”

His arm blurred. Azira’s face snapped sideways as he was punched squarely in the jaw. He blinked rapidly. Then he turned to spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the nearest angel’s shoe. They squawked in outrage. 

“—That’s for humiliating Beelzebub and I during the apocalypse. You must be rather proud of yourself, playing your twisted games and manipulating the Antichrist. Am I wrong, demon?”

Azira gazed up slowly. His lips twisted into a wry smirk. 

Gabriel’s eyes darkened. “Don’t think any demon will come to your aid. Hell has abandoned you.” He grabbed the back of Azira’s collar and yanked their faces together. Azira squeezed his eyes shut. “You are  _ doomed _ . Do you hear me? We will give you a death even your Prince shudders at. A fitting end for a piece of vermin like you.”

Gabriel released him and waved a hand. “Lock him up. We will prepare for his execution tomorrow, at dawn.” 

The angels unfurled their wings. Their feet left the ground, letting Azira dangle between them like deadweight. He cursed and kicked. Crowley still couldn’t move. At once he felt so repulsed by his own helplessness that he refused to look at his demon. 

The sounds of Gabriel’s approach grew nearer. He snapped his fingers. 

The spell lifted from Crowley’s frame. His fingers twitched. Then he bent forward with his face in his hands, inhaling sharply. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

A hand extended down towards him. “Stand up, Raphael. You’re free.” 

Crowley stared at that offering palm. He was at a loss of what to do. He couldn’t even kick up a fuss, or rebel, or sock Gabriel across the jaw and beat him bloody—because Azira’s sacrifice would be in vain. He couldn’t afford to get caught now. Not if he wanted to rescue the demon from wherever the hell the angels were taking him. 

Crowley took the palm reluctantly. He was pulled to his feet. 

“Let’s go home.” Gabriel lifted into the air with a powerful beat of his quadruple wings. Crowley let himself be pulled airborne, his own canary-yellow wings unfurling from his back. 

For once, he ducked his head and did not argue. “Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hope everyone’s doing okay :)
> 
> It’s supposed to be my school holiday but I guess I’m not gonna be able to go out anytime soon lmao, the monotony of the days are killing me
> 
> at least animal crossing still saves my ass every morning 
> 
> Also I just read chp 200 of kimetsu no yaiba and it killed me so I transferred the angst here ;’) anyways get ready guys!! We’re almost near the end heheh


	16. A holy bath

Never mind getting locked up in the Bastille. Never mind being left alone for twenty years. This was the _ worst _. 

He wondered if he had ever missed Heaven. If he did, it must have been a long time ago. Long before civilisation was built, before the Gates of Eden had opened, before he met a certain demon on a fateful starry night. 

He barely remembered who he was before. It probably wasn’t important. Crowley didn’t miss the version of himself when life in Heaven was all he knew; he didn’t have anyone or anything he wanted to protect then. Nothing he wanted to be. He was born for a single purpose—to colour the universe—and with that job done he’d moved on to what all archangels eventually did: sit back and be served.

Being away on earth for so long merely reminded him of how much he’d disliked it. 

“Lord Raphael.” A silver platter was held up to his face. There was a gold chalice on it, filled generously with maroon wine. “Would you like a drink?”

“No.” Crowley grumbled. His cheek was pressed against the glass, where he sat curled in a window alcove. Cushions were piled high all around him. 

“Then would you like me to play a piece from the Sound of Music?” The angel miracled a harp into hand. He strummed the strings experimentally. 

“Please no.”

He sighed. “Very well. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, do not hesitate to call for me. It is very good that you’ve returned, Lord Raphael.” 

Crowley continued staring wistfully out of the window. Footsteps retreated, followed by the gentle shut of a heavy door and the turn of keys in their lock. For Hell’s sake, angels had no discretion. Could they make it more obvious that he was being put under house-arrest? At least when the humans had thrown him into their dungeons, they’d been upfront and honest about it. Good for them. 

He threw his head back and sighed. He needed to come up with a plan soon. But what he was going to do while locked in a personal tower faraway from the celestial prison was beyond him. Maybe he should smash the window and escape. No, too loud and risky. In the first place, the number one problem was the servant angel stationed outside. It was impossible attempting anything with him constantly breathing down Crowley’s neck. 

Crowley stood up. He was dressed in a loose white tunic sewn with gold embellishments. A crown of gold leaves nested in his hair. He couldn’t be walking around sticking out like a sore-thumb after all; he’d gratefully accepted the clothes prepared for him. Even if he missed his usual attire. Anyway, it was best not to raise any attention for now. 

He grabbed a ceramic pitcher from the table as he descended the marble steps. It spiralled elegantly along the cylindrical walls of the white brick tower, stopping just shy of the double doors. 

“Muriel?” he called. 

Keys jangled hastily. The doors were unlocked and opened at once. Muriel stumbled in with a courtesy bow. “You called for me, Lord Raphael?”

“Yes yes. Step over here for a minute, won’t you?”

“Like this?”

“Bit closer. There’s a good chap. Hup—” 

He knocked the pitcher down upon the angel’s head. It made a dull clang. Muriel’s eyes widened. He wobbled on his feet, eyes rolling back into his skull. Crowley caught him before he could hit the ground. 

“So sorry about this,” panted Crowley after dragging Muriel aside to let him lean against the wall. He patted his head as an afterthought. “If it makes you feel better, you’ll never have to see me again. You’re free from your work; isn’t that nice? Right then.” 

He drew himself up, folding his sleeves back. “Hope I’m good at sneaking about. I dunno—never tried.” 

And then Crowley ran. 

————

He had a hard time finding where the celestial prison was. But then again, no ordinary self-respecting angel should ever have to find themselves anywhere near its location, and Crowley would know even less, for he spent more time in the stars than down here in the clouds. 

He kept to the shadows, ducking behind corners whenever he heard footsteps approaching. The angels did not sense that something was amiss. They continued strolling through paradisiacal gardens of white passionflowers and lilies, scrolls in hand, engaged in idle talk. It was always daytime here. The pepectual afternoon sun cast brilliant rays upon the marble foundations heaven was built out of, diffracting into rainbows whenever they hit water or glass. 

Crowley descended the main staircase hurriedly. There was less need to hide once he left the citadel. He redoubled his pace. The outskirts of heaven comprised mainly of green hills studded with wildflowers, and beyond them, an endless bank of clouds. Occasional ruins of grey marble littered the horizon. Crowley trekked over the rise and dips of the land, keeping t

he cloak around his head tight. The winds were restless here, cleaving through the grass, stirring the clouds above and below into undulating waves. 

A white temple eventually loomed into view. The bronze braziers were lit, lining the incline of the polished stairs as Crowley ascended. No guards were present. Understandable; they had better things to do than keep watch over a prison they knew no one would try to invade. That was the case at least, until Crowley arrived. 

The walls and domed ceilings flaunted off perfect replicas of Vatican paintings. Pillars and arches were embellished in lines of gold; which ran perpendicular to the floors where they met in the centre in a circle of runes. Crowley positioned himself on the circle. It flared with light momentarily, replacing the bright grandeur of the temple with an immediate grisly view of the underground dungeons.

Crowley stepped off the circle. The air here was cold and stale. When he exhaled, his breath left him as a cloud of mist. He grabbed a torch from the stone wall and held it up as he wandered through the dim passageways. Rectangular cells lined the walls, most empty, some less. Rats scuttled away from his light. Crowley had to pause when the torch illuminated a hunched figure sprawled against the bars. It had been reduced to bones. Was it an angel? Or a demon? It was impossible to tell. They were made of the same stock after all. 

“Zira!” Crowley called. His voice was unbearably loud in these close quarters. “Angel, where are you?”

A rattle of chains answered. He set off towards its direction, fear forgotten. 

“...Crowley?” Asked a dismembered voice, hopeful yet afraid to hope. 

He rounded the corner and finally found him. The torch fell from his hand. Its fire extinguished in a spew of flying embers when it hit the ground. Crowley fell to his knees as well, clutching trembling hands around the cold bars that held his demon prisoner. 

Azira gazed at him woefully. There were dark circles under his eyes. His ankles were chained, wrists bound in blessed iron. Cuts and bruises speckled his skin. He sat sprawled as far away from the bars as he could, huddled against the wall as if the solidness of it offered comfort. 

“Angel. Angel please.” Crowley begged. “It’s me.” 

Those blue eyes widened. Some fog cleared away, then Azira all but stumbled forward to wrap freezing fingers around his own. Crowley leaned in as deep as he could go, pulling him into a fierce hug. Azira buried his face into his shoulder, stifling a sob.

“Shh, angel, it’s okay—”

“Crowley, I thought I’d never see you again!” He wailed, clutching fistfuls of his tunic. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never seen Azira so afraid. The thought simply ignited a fire deep in his veins; a sense of burning hatred for the angels who did this to him. 

“Then why did you rush off on your own without me, silly angel?” He sighed, pulling away. 

Azira kneeled with his hands on his knees, biting back tears. Crowley considered the hiccuping mess before him thoughtfully. 

“Angel?”

“Y—yeah?” He rubbed his face with his sleeves. The grey robe was too large on him. 

Crowley hid his smile behind his hand. “Your crying face is adorable.” 

Azira glared at him. It was with eyes too large and blue and teary, lips pulled into a pout. Crowley’s heart only swelled further. He took Azira into his arms again and softly patted his back until the tremors stopped. 

Hands were on his chest, tracing vague circles. Azira murmured into his tunic. “I was so scared, I—the only thing I could think of was running away. From you—I mean, trouble follows me wherever I go, Crowley, so I thought that if I had Gabriel take me away you’d be safe and…and…”

He sniffled. “I’m sorry. I know what I did was reckless, and stupid, and now Gabriel’s going to kill me and I’ll never see you again—”

He dissolved into a fresh wave of tears. 

Crowley sighed. “That’s what you’re worried about? _ Angel _. What about yourself?”

“I...it’s fine, Crowley. I suppose, as long as you’re safe…” Azira beamed at him through his tears. “I’m the happiest I can be.” 

He closed his eyes, resigned. “Stupid angel.” 

“_ Excuse _ me?”

“Listen. I have a plan, but first you have to promise me something.” Crowley dug into his pockets, extracting a slip of paper. He held it up between their faces. “Whatever we do next, we do _ together _ or not at all, got it?”

Azira nodded, lips trembling. “My dear...I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry.” 

Crowley folded his arms with a huff. “Me? Mad? At you running with open arms towards certain death? Pshh.” 

Azira laughed softly. Hands reached past the bars to cup his face, tracing his cheeks, his jaw, twirling around a lock of hair. 

“You can’t lie to me, darling. I know you too well.” 

“S—shut up.” Crowley felt heat start to pool in his cheeks. He leaned into Azira’s palm, turning sideways to kiss it. “I missed you. I bet I won’t miss you when you’re dead, though.” 

Azira sighed, a knowing smile on his lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“That I am. Heaven’s worst angel, remember?”

Déjà vu struck the both of them. They gazed around the cell in unison, at the rusted bars, the chains, and the memorable prison banter. 

“The Bastille...was it? I recall quite vividly how you slammed me against the wall.” Azira raised a brow. 

“That’s not the point!” Crowley squawked. 

“Oh?”

“The point isss—the point is, we’re on our side. Gabriel and the rest of his goons don't know that!”

Azira took the slip of paper from his hands and scanned through it briefly. “Choose your faces wisely, she said. Does it mean…what I think it means?”

“Yes angel. Right now, the only thing we have is each other. And we’re going to make full use of that.” Crowley smirked. 

“A body swap.” He considered this. “You’re going to take my place at _ my _ execution?”

“Sure, why not? Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“While _ I _ stand at the side and watch? How is that fair?”

“You’ll be doing me a favour. Trust me, angel.” Crowley cast a wary look behind his back, before continuing, “I’m not exactly in heaven’s best graces at the moment either. Something’s gonna happen to me, I’m sure of it. And I know you’ll be able to handle it.” 

Azira held a strangled look on his face. Crowley shook his head. 

“Angel. Do you trust me?”

“Now that you’re questioning it, I really don’t think I do.” 

“_ Zira _.” 

He sighed through his nose, glancing away. “Yes, of course I trust you. Now let’s hear that exasperating plan of yours.” 

Crowley beamed. He pulled Azira closer to the bars so he could plant a kiss upon his forehead, and nuzzle into his snowy curls like an affectionate cat. “Oh Zira. I knew our love was for real.” 

“If your plan goes horribly wrong and _ both _ of us end up dead…” Azira jabbed. “I’m holding you accountable.” 

“Can’t. We’ll be dead.” 

“Crowley, you—”

The rest of their conversation dissolved into laughter and indignant yells. A figure hiding surreptitiously nearby slipped back into shadows. They’ve seen and heard enough. 

“Archangel Michael,” they whispered into the receiver. “You were right.”

“_ Raphael is conspiring with the enemy? _”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“_ Good work. Now Gabriel will have no reason to protect our idiot brother any longer. Report back to me. _” 

The angel looked back towards Raphael and the demon. It was an incomprehensible sight. Yet there was something about the way they looked at each other, the casual way they exchanged fleeting touches and smiles…it was something bewildering, curious, precious. The union between two beings who were never intended to ever see eye to eye; that was what Raphael and Azira had achieved. 

It felt like a crime to taint something so willfully innocent. 

The angel hesitated. If there was another world where their ties to heaven weren’t so absolute, they might have chosen to look away. But this was their world. They didn’t have a choice. 

“Understood.” 

————

Dawn broke on earth. 

Azira’s cell was opened precisely when the morning sun climbed past the horizon. 

“It’s time.” 

He rose. The clinking of chains followed. He was escorted by a parade of angels dressed in ceremonial gear. When he emerged out into the sun, a crowd was already expecting him. Whispering. Glaring. Murmuring behind their palms. He looked away. 

Ivory towers rose and scraped the azure sky. On each perched an Archangel, expressions collectively haughty and calm apart from the strangled look on Crowley’s face. His knuckles were bone-white on the gold railing. 

Azira caught his eyes. He winked. 

Crowley looked _ pissed. _Now that was a face the others would expect him to wear. He should keep at it. 

Right. Everything was going to plan so far. 

“Demon Azira.” One of the lesser angels read from a scroll. 

He spun around exuberantly. “Yup, that’s me!”

Crowley was shooting him withering glares again from the top of his tower. _ Take this seriously! _

Always such a worrywart. This was such a novel prank after all—couldn’t they have the least bit of fun pulling everyone’s tail right in front of their noses? 

“Do you accept your rightful punishment in accordance to your crimes against the Almighty and bla bla bla.” The angel tossed the scroll behind his back. “Of course you do. Now shoo. Die already. Vermin Hastur, we leave the rest to you.”

The duke of hell stood out like a stain among the pristine rows of angels. He grumbled as the crowd parted in horror around him, creating a straight path for him to take to Azira’s side. He yanked the chains away from the guards, tugging forcefully such that Azira tripped over his feet. Well. This body needed some getting used to. 

“Always afraid to get ya hands dirty, aren’t ya featherwings?” Hastur scoffed. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

Azira blinked. “Is that...a frog on your head?” 

He’d never been informed that demons boasted a fashion line of animal hats! Why didn’t Azira—well, the real Azira—ever wore one then? He had to get an explanation out of him as soon as this whole charade was over. 

The duke gave him an almost malevolent stare-down. Then he rolled his eyes, announcing loudly up to the towers, “Oi Gabriel! Think you hit this ‘un too hard. He’s got amnesia now!”

“Pish-tosh.” Azira fixed his imaginary bow-tie. “My mental functions are perfectly optimal, thank you very much.” 

Hastur stared at him, left eye twitching. Crowley had his face in his hands, probably wishing for death. 

“Never mind. He’s fine.” Hastur gave the chain another sharp yank. This time, he could not catch himself fast enough before he was on grazed knees, wrists chained behind his back. The abyssal darkness in Hastur’s eyes swirled like a violent, oppressive storm, and for the first time since he woke up in Azira’s body this morning, Crowley decided against making a cutting remark. 

“Brace yourself, traitor.” Hastur leered like a shark. “The rest of us will be downstairs eagerly waiting to hear your screams.” 

Their surroundings flickered from view. When they next reappeared with a burst of static, Crowley found himself alone on a single rock with the raging sea all around him. He struggled. He couldn’t move. He was wrapped in thick chains and bound to a cold rod behind his back, which was embedded in a crack of the rock below him. Gulls cried overhead. Whenever the waves crashed by, seaspray blew into his face and soaked his robes. The receding tide would rise to his knees before slowly creeping back into the sea. Crowley shuddered. It was _ freezing _.

“_ Ahem. Ahem. Yes. Can ya hear me? _” There was a vintage radio by his feet. Crowley contemplated kicking it into the water. 

“_ Now, this is gonna be funny. Look behind ya. Can ya see sumthing? _”

“What, your ugly face?” Crowley hissed, but strained his neck back anyway. He caught a glint of gold under the strengthening morning light. No way. The rod pressed against his spine rose past his head to arch elegantly into two symmetrical wings, its end capped with a brilliant emerald sphere. Crowley’s eyes widened. It was his staff. The one he lost six thousand years ago. The one he’d last seen in Eve’s hand as she found new freedom outside the Garden. 

“_ Look familiar? Bingo. It’s your boyfriend’s staff. _”

Cold washed down Crowley’s back. “How did you get it?”

“_ Don’t underestimate us, Azira. That’s ya first mistake. Wha were you thinkin’, tryin to court an Archangel? Are ya really that deranged? _”

“What can I say. He’s hot.” 

The voice in the radio stuttered. “_ Don’t think your Archangel boyfriend will come rescue you. He’s in trouble too. Not that he knows, of course, haha! _”

Crowley glanced skywards glumly. He called it. “‘s too bad.”

“_ Too bad, indeed. Ta-ta—no, what’s the word you used? Noodles. Doodles. _”

“Toodles.” 

“_ Yes. Toodles! Have a happy excruciating death, don’t forget to scream! _” 

“What am I supposed to scream at, exactly?”

No, wait. Something’s changed. Crowley stuck his tongue out, tasting the sudden absence of brine. He wrinkled his nose. When the next wave hit, he was showered by a rain of not only freezing but now holy water, leaving its distinct minty feeling on his skin. It burned. Was it because he was wearing Azira’s skin, or was it just paranoia? 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” He yelped, straining against the chains. “Did you seriously bless the entire _ ocean _?”

The cackling laughter in the radio died away. 

He was alone now. Bound at sea, left to die in the push and pulls of the erratic grey waves. If Crowley hadn’t taken Azira’s place, he could only imagine how terrified the demon would be, surrounded on all sides with flesh-melting water, burning up with every spray of the sea. It would be a slow death. A slow, excruciating death, washed away wave by wave until nothing remained. 

“Bastards!” he howled, the anguish in his chest fierce. “All of you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone watching from heaven/hell: yikes


	17. A piercing sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mild violence/blood!!
> 
> Anyways this is Big Yikes Part II :)

Azira resisted the urge to chew on his nails. It was already uncomfortable enough to be wearing an Archangel’s body, but to see Crowley disguised as himself while helpless in a sea of holy water was nerve-wracking. He knew Crowley was alright (despite his loud, exaggerated screaming to fool the rest) but the execution seemed just like a scene from his worst nightmares. Of course Hell would get creative about this. It was clear how much they wanted him dead. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. Azira jumped. Instinct told him to grab the wrist and fling them forward, but he was lucky to have checked himself before he could. 

Gabriel’s eyes were lit violet with delight. “Watch closely now, Raphael. This is the punishment a demon receives for toying with one of our own. Aren’t you glad he’s gone?”

“Right…” Azira fumbled with his hands. There was something about the Archangel that reminded him of darkness slinking down your back. No wonder Crowley couldn’t stand him. “Quite so.”

“You seem unusually calm today.” 

His heart lurched. 

“I thought you’d be kicking up a huuuuuge fuss about murder and mercy again.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, giving him a friendly pat on the back. “See? It isn’t so bad. Before long, you’ll be able to smite them too and _ finally _be a proper angel.”

Azira shot him a sideways glance. A proper angel? Since when had Crowley been anything but?

“An angel who bows their head to your every order, you mean?” He murmured under his breath. 

Gabriel’s smirk grew. He stepped towards the edge of the clouds where the ocean resided down below, and started into a slow amble. “Come, walk with me.” 

He kept a wary distance between them. It did not escape the archangel’s notice. Gabriel smiled again, the kind of smile that made all the nerves in his stomach knot and scream that he should be running far away from here. 

“What do you think makes a perfect angel, Raphael?”

Azira blinked. He looked up from the sparkling spectacle that was the blue ocean under the sunlight, and turned his gaze further upwards instead. The clouds drifted aimlessly past. It was so bright it almost blinded him. He’d forgotten how close to the sky he used to stand. So this was what it felt like. No. This was nothing like Before. Too much had changed. 

“Is it brilliance? Leadership? Power?”

“Kindness,” said Azira. 

Gabriel’s steps haltered. He turned a half-pace to offer a pitying look. “Of course you’d say that.”

Then he faced forward and resumed his walk. “Brother. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

Azira could only gaze at the Archangel’s back. It was squared, upright, unyielding. Never once did those powerful shoulders hunch forward or curl in defeat. Gabriel was so unlike humanity, Azira realised. He was too perfect. Too faraway from where the rest of them stood. It was no wonder why he lacked empathy, and could not understand those who chose to settle a little closer towards earth. 

“When you were born, Mother was so _ enamoured _with you. I could never understand why. You’re so...bizzare! You ask questions when we told you not to. You skive off your work, you talk back to your superiors, and you have no regards for authority whatsoever. We’re at a loss of what to make of you.” 

Gabriel had stopped walking completely. Azira soon followed suit. He kept silent, unfolding his arms to link his hands calmly behind his back, gazing wistfully out towards the bank of clouds. The wind blew past them unceasingly. He lengthened Crowley’s hair unconsciously, till they lifted in the wind like the billowing of a brave flame. 

“And you can’t accept that,” Azira concluded plainly. 

“No. We can’t.” Gabriel’s eyes slanted. “I’ve tried to protect you. I tried to cover up your whims, your mistakes, so others would look the other way. But I can’t do that any longer.”

A pair of hands lunged out to clasp around his throat. Azira’s breath hitched. He struggled and kicked but to no avail; Gabriel’s grip was like lead and he was utterly at his mercy. 

“Why do you always befriend your enemies, Raphael?” Gabriel demanded, a spark in his eyes akin to both sorrow and rage. “Your kindness poisons you. It is a fault. Sloppy reports and insubordination I can take, but consorting with demons? Are you out of your mind?”

The hold around his throat eased. Before he could catch his breath, a blow glanced across his face and Azira was left sprawled on the floor, clutching his cheek in shock. Crowley’s bitter words in the Bastille all swarmed back towards him then: “_ Family. They’ve always despised me, Zira. You don’t even know _.”

_ I’m sorry I doubted you, _Azira clutched a fistful of the tunic above his heart, gritting his teeth. 

“You’ve crossed the line. You...you’ve gone rogue.” Gabriel clumsily backpedalled. He had a hand pressed against his forehead, as if aghast. “Disobedience must be purged, do you understand? What would the rest of heaven think if I excused you this time?” 

“You never cared about me.” 

“What?”

“The only thing important to you is your reputation.” Hearing his words being said in Crowley’s voice empowered him further. Azira pulled himself up from the ground and balled his fists. “You, Hastur, Beelzebub...you’re all the same. You think it’s convenient, don’t you, to manipulate others into obedience? But I’ll tell you what _ I _ think! You’re the worst, you... _ bad _ angel!” 

Gabriel’s twisted face flashed between shades of red and white. He drew a hand into the sleeve of his robe, pulling out the Flaming Sword hilt first. Azira abruptly found its tip aimed mere inches away from his face. His eyes narrowed. 

“I’ll only say this once,” said Gabriel flatly. “Fall.”

“No.” 

His brows twitched. 

“Then death is the only option.” 

So be it then. Azira dropped to his feet, lunging forward. He tackled Gabriel around the midriff, shoving back till the latter’s back hit the ground. Azira pinned the struggling Archangel down by the wrists. He wrenched the sword from his grasp and flung it far away; it clattered noisily to the floor. They both writhed and grunted; it was taking all his strength just to hold him still.

“You’re not Raphael, are you?” Gabriel drawled. “No. He was too much of a coward to ever achieve something like this.” 

Rage clouded his better judgement. He loosened a fist to punch him across the jaw. “Don’t talk as if you know him!” 

The mistake cost him. Gabriel’s hand, now freed, flew up to clamp around his wrist, wrenching it sharply downwards. Azira cursed. He was flipped over onto the ground at a fearsome force, left to see stars when a foot kicked him savagely in the back of his head. 

Wooden sandals stamped down on his fingers. Azira howled from the pain. Gabriel tutted, grinding his heel down with more force. 

“Who do you think you are, demon, to interfere in our affairs?” He growled. “The hierarchy in Heaven is absolute. _ I _am of higher standing than Raphael, and I alone get to dictate what becomes of him!” 

Wings unfurled from his back. His sharpened primaries slashed squarely across Gabriel’s face, spraying blood. The two leapt apart from the other with a snarl. 

Gabriel wiped a hand down his nose. It came away smeared with red. He barked a dry laugh as if deeply amused. “You can swap your bodies but not your wings, huh.” 

The individual feathers flaring out from Azira’s wings were each darker than the night itself. It must be jarring to see them on an Archangel’s body. 

“Demon wings. That’s a good look on you, brother.” 

Azira’s breath hitched in his throat. “You—”

Movement flashed past him. Although he veered back it was already too late. In his peripheral vision the blade caught the sun and burned almost as bright, and then the pain was blinding too, when it cleanly pierced through his back and tore out of his chest. All breath was knocked out of his lungs. He fell to his knees, chest heaving, hands trembling, soaked with the blood that ran in rivulets from his wound. His mouth filled up with iron-tasting bile. 

The pain in his chest expounded. Gabriel was trying to wrench the sword free, he realised, and Azira lashed out blindly to sweep the Archangel’s feet out from below him. Gabriel swore. 

Dark spots clouded over his vision. Azira trained all his strength into putting one hand after the other, dragging himself to the edge where the ground met empty space. He gasped for what little air his perforated lungs could still receive, and struggled upright for all the pain searing and burning his nerves as if he was being torched from the inside-out. 

Azira drew himself up. The full sun cloaked his front in shadow, leaving only a crown of light behind his head. It resembled a fiery halo. He laughed. 

Gabriel froze. 

“I say.” Blood spilled from the corners of his upturned lips, when he offered Gabriel the most angelic smile he could muster. “If I’m going to die, it sure as hell won’t be by your hands. I have _ standards _. Well then.”

He gave Gabriel what the bastard always deserved—the third and most superior finger of all. And then like a saint Azira extended his arms fully on either side of him, curving his heels around the edge. He leaned gently back. 

And then the winds and the sky claimed him. He fell. 

————

“Shitshitshitshitshit—for god’s sake!” Crowley yelled (unsuccessfully) at his chains, and absolutely nothing happened. It was getting tiresome. Although the holy ocean wasn’t hurting him in the slightest, getting drenched by a giant wave every two minutes was far from pleasant. His nose was running. He was losing feeling in his toes. Maybe by the end of this he’d have to pluck them off. 

“Stupid stick, do something!” He groaned. His staff pulsed as if in sympathy, but otherwise offered very little concrete help. “I haven’t seen you in six thousand years and _ this _ is how you treat me?”

His staff displayed an alternating-coloured aura of displeasure. 

“I didn’t throw you away, I gave you away! Big difference! And I’m sure you _ loved _ having Eve’s hands all over you, dirty traitor!” 

The emerald orb flashed angrily. 

“Argh, fine! Be like that.” Crowley glanced away with a huff. “It isn’t like I need your help or anything.” 

He stared glumly at the shore which was currently an unreachable distance away thanks to Hastur’s delightful handiwork. Now it became apparent why Azira despised his colleagues so much; they were an unwanted pain in everyone’s ass. He hoped the demon was doing better. Sure, being around Gabriel could be traumatising enough to induce an anxiety attack, but Azira could handle it...right?

The orb on his staff flashed red. Trouble was nearby. What the hell? Crowley scanned his eyes across the entire horizon, but saw nothing amiss other than gulls stealing fries and swallowing plastic. If it wasn’t down here on earth, then it had to be up there. 

Crowley’s blood ran cold. He glanced skywards desperately, hoping to catch a figure or two to get an idea of what could be going on. But then he saw his own back—or rather, Azira-in-his-back—creeping towards the edge unsteadily, swaying where he stood. His robes were soaked in red. A little distance away was Gabriel on the ground, eyes thunderous and more murderous than he had been in eons. The last time that happened, an entire city was drowned in the depths. 

A weight in his stomach plummeted. 

Azira held his arms out. His body tipped at just a slight angle over the edge—

And then he was falling. 

Crowley’s jaw flew open. He couldn’t breathe. Something in his ears was making a dastardly noise—himself screaming, perhaps, or crying, or a combination of both—because didn’t that dumbass demon realise that he was seconds away from dissolving like sugar in a sea of holy water? 

He strained against the chains with newfound panic. “Azira!”

The staff against his back shuddered, rattling his chains. 

“_ Azira _!” 

————

Now this was a familiar sensation. 

The wind howling in his ears, the tears of agony in his eyes. 

A trail of black feathers tearing from his wings and into the sky like flyaway stars. 

The Flaming Sword with him. Except this time it was inside him. 

Azira had a feeling that he couldn’t Fall again and hope to survive it. 

He couldn’t do it. The hilt of the sword was behind his back and he couldn’t push the sword out without slicing his fingers into ribbons on its blade. 

Demons were a violent race. They fell to earth in an explosion of sulfur and burnt feathers. They lived to do nothing but destroy, wreck, and curse. Similarly, their deaths were brutal and decimating. But it was a comforting thought. Such an end was cleansing, purifying. It wiped away every impurity in their damaged souls. It healed their deep-rooted corruption. 

To become a blank slate at the end of his days was all Azira wanted. 

Maybe that way, he could stand before Her again. 

It was a freeing thought. 

Azira closed his eyes and felt a release lighter than air itself. 


	18. Which side of the war would suffer the cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day ??? of quarantine, how are we fellas?
> 
> Also TW for blood and gore (but not too bad, I think?)
> 
> Thanks for reading ;) we're getting to the end in about 2 more chapters oh boi

He wasn’t going to make it. 

It was funny how a single thought could make the world fall apart. 

Crowley already knew it. They weren’t like humans. They couldn’t hope to lead their simple, uneventful lives. They couldn’t wish for a happy ending. He knew it from the very beginning, when a certain blue-eyed demon had held his eyes and told him with a blush that he’d given his flaming sword away. _ Be wary, _ his heart had warned. It knew of the pain that laid ahead long before he did. 

Crowley thought he was prepared. Those countless days he woke up in the middle of the night in cold sweat over losing everything he had. Watching Azira walk away each time without knowing if they’d ever meet again. Death and wars, the rise and fall of civilisations. The way he and Azira pulled and pushed from the other like the seasonal orbits of stars, deep down knowing the time they had was short. 

He thought he’d be able to handle it once it was lost. 

He thought he did. 

He really did. 

Liar. 

Wings tore out from his back. They were already raised, already tensed for the fastest flight of his life. It didn’t matter what the odds were. None of it mattered; because he was going to save Azira or die trying. 

His staff shuddered again, the deep growl of an awakening beast. 

“Go!” Crowley roared, and then his staff burst skywards from the rocks with a small explosion. The chains around him loosened, falling to his feet. His wings cleaved the air as they swept forward, unleashing a gust of wind so strong they sent the tides reeling away from shore and clashing violently with the waves that wanted to return. 

The air whistled in his ears. 

Faster. 

Faster. 

He had to make it. 

But what if—

“Azira!”

The demon’s eyes were closed. At this distance he could already see. And of course Azira would have that kind of look on his face when moments away from total oblivion. 

Stupid Azira. How could he look so peaceful? Did he even think about what he’d feel in a world without him? Demons were the worst. Perhaps they all were. In their own ways. 

Crowley opened his arms. Closed his eyes. They crashed into the other. He gasped when scorching pain seized his chest, agonising enough to white out his vision, but he held on tighter still to crush Azira’s shoulders within his embrace. _ I’ve got you. And I’m never letting you go. _

The demon in his arms flinched awake. 

“Crowley—” his eyes blew open as wide as saucers. 

And then they hit the shore. The impact was brutal. It felt as if he was being ripped apart atom by atom. Crowley heaved for breath, struggling to his elbows. He was crouched over the demon, knees buried into the sand on either side of his hips. Azira’s eyes were wide and terrified beneath him. Crowley bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

_ Get away. You’re scaring him. _

But he couldn't. This was the furthest he could go. 

“A—angel.” He rasped instead, mind going foggy. “Are you...okay?”

“I am. Crowley, I—”

“Good.” Warmth filled his mouth. Whatever it was, it was spilling out from the corners of his lips, dark and sticky. Was it premonition? Or was it divinity? Crowley somehow realised the demon beneath him would be the last thing he’d ever saw. _ He was the first thing I saw too. _On the gates, a man shrouded in black with curls as white as snow had flown down to greet him.

That was when Crowley learnt what falling felt like. 

_ I’m glad, _Crowley wanted to say. Maybe his lips had shaped the words. But in the end, he knew they were pulled up into a smile. He rested his head against Azira’s clavicle, eyes shutting contentedly. It was warm. It was safe. 

He was diving somewhere deep down into the darkness. 

And then all was still. 

————

As Crowley lowered his head, Azira caught the ghost of a smile upon his bloodied lips. 

But that was also when he saw something else. 

Protruding out from his back, slicked with blood and gleaming under the sun, was the blade of the Flaming Sword. And it was aflame. 

Crowley had settled fully against him. He was no longer moving. Nor breathing. 

Everything slowed. The waves inched agonisingly slowly to shore. The gulls seemed to have frozen overhead. The clouds halted in their tracks. 

Azira sat up slowly, cradling Crowley’s limp body in his arms. He brushed his cheek gently. How quickly it had lost its colour. Then he tucked the stray locks of hair behind his ears. He wiped the blood off his lips, traced the arch of his closed eyes and the small cut across his forehead. 

Everything had gone awfully quiet in Azira’s mind. Only the sea roared, and roared, relentless in its violent crashing despite its unmoving waters. Their surroundings were a total grey. There was a storm inside him. If it was unleashed, Azira thought, it would never stop. The clouds would crowd over the entire sky. The rains would last for months, years. The world would drown in his tears. 

“You’re taking him away.” Azira whispered to the sky, to someone he knew was watching. Listening. As She had since the Beginning. 

The sunlight shifted. Its rays fragmented into prismatic shards against the colourless sky, falling into the sea. 

Azira tightened his hold around Crowley. “I won’t let you.” 

He reached behind him, straining with all his might. It didn’t hurt now. Or maybe nothing hurt as much as the motionless body left in his arms. Without pausing for breath Azira pulled, sweat beading along his hairline as he felt the blade shift in his chest, cutting bone, tearing nerves. It made an awful wet noise. 

When the blade freed Crowley, Azira pulled harder. He momentarily blacked out from the pain. But then focused on it, tightening his grasp, letting it ground him as the only anchor he had on this dissociating world. 

The sword wrenched free. His hand, suddenly slack, released the hilt. It stained the sand where it fell a bright red. 

Every muscle in his legs trembled as he forced himself to his feet. He fell back down again twice. Tears, stained with blood, splattered onto his fists. They left dark blotches in the sand. 

“Hold on, my dear.” Azira gritted his teeth. He felt something in his ribs tear when he straightened with a cry and gasped for breath.

“I’ve got you.” He reached down and lifted Crowley into his arms. One hand behind his neck, the other slung below his knees. He stumbled from the weight. But he dug his heels into the sand so he wouldn’t fall. 

He only had one shot at this. 

“You’re going to be alright.” Azira chuckled, breath whistling. The waves picked up speed again. _ Push. Recede. Push. Recede. Repeat. _

He was nearing the waters. Even from here, his skin prickled at the celestial power that stirred underneath. It was making his bleeding worse. His head spun precariously, tethering on the edge of blacking out completely. 

A few more steps. 

Three, two, one. 

His sole sizzled when it contacted the holy water. Azira squeezed his eyes shut, every line in his face contorting in agony. 

Walk. _ Walk _. 

The water rose to his ankles. He could no longer feel his feet. His blood couldn’t even taint the blessed ocean; they vaporised like water on a frying pan. 

“Th—thank you for—saving me, my dear.” One step. Two. The burn was reaching his knees. He wondered how long more he could stand. Surely his legs were being eaten into sticks. “T—this would’ve been an excruciating death indeed, if y—you weren’t here. There we go.” 

He lowered Crowley gently into the sea. Mist sprayed up against his face as his hands slipped underwater. The last of his vision left him. The sun overhead descended fully into darkness. 

It was fine. His job was done. 

Azira stumbled back as far from the waters as he could go. But his legs weren’t working right. Gravity soon claimed him fully. He shut himself off so he wouldn’t feel the fall. 

————

Where was he?

Somewhere and nowhere, under the sea. 

The light broke through the surface in undulating waves. Everything was moving. He was a mere speck in this unending current, destined to be carried where the waves took him. 

_ Raphael. _

The voice rang out so clearly even underwater. It was the sound of bells tinkling in the wind, the sharp rustle of leaves and a lone howl that pierced the night. 

_ Wake up. Please wake up. _

Warmth, in the shape of arms, embraced him. 

_ You have to go home. _

“But I am home.” Bubbles rose to the surface. It was slipping further and further away. “Don’t you want me here, Mother?”

_ Do you want to stay, my child? _

His fingers twitched. The undercurrent was pulling him down but something in him still reared up to resist. A cloud of bubbles from his frantic thrashes blasted into his face. 

“I—” He opened his mouth and the seawater rushed in. Both hands flew up to his throat. Crowley startled fully awake. He whirled about in the empty blue-greenness for a moment, mind whirling. Where _ was _he? 

Instincts took over. His legs began to kick, and he rose inch by inch, slowly but surely towards the light. 

_ Go. _ The voice smiled. _ Save him. _

Crowley gasped and coughed when he broke the surface. His strength had returned. He looked down at himself in bewilderment, feeling his arms and then his chest, gawking at the hole in his tunic and yet the fully intact skin that laid underneath. The sea breeze was freezing cold against his wet face. The breaths that left him were warm. 

He was alive. 

How?

“_ Azira _.” 

And all of a sudden he was Atlas, pinned under the weight of the sky.

A body was sprawled on shore. Crowley paddled to it, heart racing, using a miracle to dry himself completely of the holy water before falling onto his knees by the demon’s side. Crowley didn’t know where to look. He used to be a Healer, who tended to wounds in the fiercest of wars and patched soldiers back from the dead. He thought he had seen the worst of it in those dark ages. 

But Azira’s condition now…his stomach turned. He must’ve walked into the water himself, knowing holy water could cure any ails for an angel. And the more powerful the angel, the more potent its effects. Certain angels of higher standing have been known to come back from the dead so long as they were treated fast enough. 

Crowley slapped a hand over his mouth, his entire form shaking. Most of the flesh on the demon’s hands and legs have been stripped down to bone. It wasn’t something even he could heal overnight. He needed to get Azira somewhere, somewhere heaven or hell couldn’t reach—

“Okay, how the fuck are you still alive?” demanded a voice behind him. 

Crowley whipped around on the spot, barely managing to contain a snarl. Gabriel stared unimpressively down at him, lips sealed in a thin line.

“Perhaps the Almighty still has some use for you yet.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “It can’t be helped. Come on, get up. No. Don’t tell me—you’re _ still _hung up over that demon?”

Crowley turned his back. He scooped Azira into his arms, holding him securely against his chest. 

Gabriel sounded more annoyed. “For hell’s sake, brother. Anyway you look at it, that demon’s dead! Just throw it over there and let’s go home already!”

He miracled a scabbard across his back and reached down to sheathe the flaming sword into place. Crowley finally turned and met Gabriel’s gaze. Those gold eyes were flat. Empty. Done. 

He held up a hand. The air whistled briefly. All the hairs on Gabriel’s skin stood and he backpedalled just in time for the point of a staff to bury into the spot he was just standing before. It was glowing with malevolent energy. 

“Do not. Fucking. Follow me.” Crowley’s wings unfurled. He even opened the second pair which to Gabriel’s knowledge—never, ever happened before, because Crowley was so adamant in always keeping his archangel status to himself. At the display, even Gabriel started getting second thoughts. He took another step back and held up his arms. 

Crowley waved a hand. His staff dislodged from the ground and obediently floated back to his side. 

“If I see anyone come for us—anyone at all—I _ will _kill them.” 

Gabriel swallowed thickly. He nodded, mostly for the sake of getting out of this situation with his head intact. 

Crowley shot him one last vehement glare. It radiated bloodlust in waves. Unbelievable! He could have chosen to get worked up over anything, but a _ dead _demon? Gabriel tasted something sour on his tongue as he gritted his teeth. But he would be a fool to not take those warnings seriously.

He backed off. 

Crowley’s eyes immediately flickered upwards. His four wings stretched out fully, launching him off the ground. Gabriel lowered the arm he had raised to stop the sand from flying into his eyes, peering up at the empty sky. 

He supposed he wouldn’t be seeing his brother around anytime soon—no, not even in the same galaxy. Now that was a massive headache off his list. Next was the _ enormous _paperwork which had resulted from this entire fiasco. Good heavens. 


	19. Heaven and Hell were words to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls beware, explicit content down below :’D

The first to awaken were his ears. 

He didn’t know where he was exactly, but the winds sounded to rustle through endless banks of grass. He heard nothing else; not the distant murmur of voices, nor birdsong, or the occasional plane that would cruise by. It was so quiet the clouds made a sound as they drifted past. 

Oh. So he was somewhere far away. 

His closed eyelids fluttered. He squeezed them tighter shut, then pulled them open slowly, blinking the blur out of his foggy vision. He must’ve been asleep for a long time. What he saw at once was miles of uninterrupted sky frozen in a state of twilight, dark blue diffused by swaths of pink, cream and lavender. Azira looked around distantly. Everywhere he glanced, there were only hills upon hills of grass bending in the winds. 

He pulled his hands up to his face. They were bandaged all the way to his elbows. He unwrapped them cautiously, prepared for the worst. If he remembered correctly, holy water had burned through his flesh until it saw bone. And yet here were his two hands, fully intact, albeit scarred shockingly mauve. They stood out from the otherwise pale ivory of his upper arms. 

Azira pulled his robe aside to feel his legs. They too were bandaged by the same careful hand. He didn’t bother unwrapping them. Instead he pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. The breaths that left him were shaky, but solid and warm. He was alive. 

He was alive. 

He stood up. The many joints in his body cracked from being unused in so long. He stretched towards the sky, unfurling his wings, shaking loose a rain of tri-coloured feathers onto the wheat-yellow grass. There was a staff and sword buried point-first into the ground behind him. They leaned against the other in a cross, leaving a large blue shadow of an uneven ‘X’ in its wake. A white ribbon was tied to the staff, loose ends dancing in the wind. Inscribed upon the fine silk were runes for healing and recovery. 

Azira untied the ribbon. This was an old way for angels to appeal to God. Leave a ribbon expressing your wishes, and on a fine day She would notice your plea and come to your aid. But whether it was Crowley or the Almighty who had brought him back from the brink of death, that much remained unclear. He re-tied the ribbon around his wrist. He might need it later on for finding his Archangel. 

Azira saw the two suns in the sky, one hanging east and the other west, and decided to head north where their dwindling light intersected. It paved for him an almost perfect path of light that snaked off towards the horizon. He already had a hunch long ago that he was no longer on earth. After all there were no demonic or angelic auras here, no heaven and hell, or traces of humans to be seen in sight. 

That is, until he saw a black and white dog bounding towards him from a row of purple-leaved trees. 

“The Hell Hound!” Azira got onto his knees, taking the hound’s (or rather, pup’s) snout into hand. It ran its nose all over his face and sniffed. Then it darted back to where it came from with its tail wagging furiously, and barks loud enough to be heard in these empty plains for miles. 

“Dog! Don’t you run off like that!” A shockingly familiar voice sounded. 

“He’s found something. Look!” 

“No way.”

“Is that Mr Azira?”

“We found him!”

“Mr Azira!”

He was utterly unprepared for a troupe of rambunctious children to sprint at him at full speed. Small hands tackled him, arms snaked around his waist and pushed, and the five of them landed on the grass in a tangle of flailing limbs. Snickers filled the air. Azira was just relieved to see another human (and Antichrist) face. Until he realised where they were. 

“Excuse me, what are you kids doing here?” he reprimanded. “Might I remind you that this is another planet very far away from home?

“I just got a bit worried, see.” Adam picked Dog up into his arms. “Cause you and Mr Crowley’s auras disappeared one day. So Ms Anathema helped me call up your workplaces to see where you went, and they said they tracked you here.” 

“Nice to know that they’re still keeping an eye on us,” Azira said dryly. 

“And I also asked why. They bullied you and Mr Crowley into coming here, didn’t they?” 

“Well that’s not nice.” Wensleydale frowned. 

“I agree. That’s why I told your bosses to stop harassing you two,” Adam said proudly. “They’ll leave you alone now. Don’t worry, I made them promise.” 

Azira was speechless for a long moment. The mental image of both Gabriel and Beelzebub trying and failing to negotiate with an eleven-year-old boy soon drove him to the point of hysterics, and he had to stifle a bout of laughter into his palm. The four kids grinned at him. 

He brushed the grass off his robes before pulling Adam into a hug. Dog circled around their heels, barking with jealousy. “Thank you, dear boy. You have no idea what it means to Crowley and I. If he’s here, he’d thank you too.” 

“So where’s Mr Crowley anyway?” Pepper glanced around. “I like his glasses. He’s cool.” 

“Very dapper.” Brian nodded. 

“I’m trying to find him,” sighed Azira, stepping away to survey their empty surroundings. He looked up towards the sky, eyes lingering on each winking star that carpeted its navy blue. Crowley could be sulking away on any one of them. It had to be intentional; to make himself this difficult to locate. “But maybe he does not want to be found.” 

Adam gazed curiously at him, through his head of messy brown curls. Azira had to wonder why he’d ever thought a boy like this could ever have it in him to end the world. 

“Why not?” 

Azira glanced at his bare feet. The grass was soft beneath his soles. “Well...he must be upset. He ran all the way over here you see, and I think he’s been meaning to for a very long time. Now that he’s done it...I don’t think he’s ready to go back. Not quite yet.” 

The kids considered this solemnly. 

“Well he must be feeling really lonely and scared,” said Wensleydale. “Shouldn’t we go to him and tell him it’s gonna be okay?”

Azira smiled kindly down at him. “Good idea, dear boy.”

“Don’t worry Mr Azira.” Hands tugged at his robes. Pepper was assuring him with a determined glint to her dark eyes. “We’ll help you find him.”

Adam nodded. It seemed like it was decided. “All of us together now. We’ll find Mr Crowley for sure!”

The kids exchanged hi-fives in unison and sprinted ahead of him, Dog loudly leading the way. Azira stumbled after them, brows slack and mind whirling. To think that in this day and age, someone else still wanted to help them. Perhaps they were never as alone as they’d thought. 

“People still care about you, Crowley.” He offered a silent prayer up to the stars. “So don’t you disappear on us now. We’re coming to get you.” 

He picked up the pace, grass flattening under his heels. Unbeknownst to them a shooting star streaked across the sky that very instant, a faint sign of hope. 

————

“Mr Crowlllleeeyyyyyyyy!”

“Where are you?”

“Mr dank glasses!”

“Oi, can you hear us?”

“Crowley!” Azira howled, then paused for breath, settling down at the tip of a hill. He turned back to see Brian scampering up towards him. “Anything?”

“Nope.” He wiped dirt off his forehead. “Adam said that he can’t sense his aura either. Maybe he’s not even here?”

They felt water splatter against their arms and looked up. It had begun to rain. The startled shrieks of the kids became muffled by the sudden downpour. Azira slid down the hill easily, spreading out his wings to shelter them from the rain. The Them huddled close to his side, Dog included, who weaved in a wet heap between their legs. 

“Mr Azira.” Adam wiped the rain off his hair with his equally soaked sleeve. Azira used a quick Miracle to dry the children up before they caught a cold. “Do you know where Mr Crowley could’ve gone?”

“It’s hard to say…” 

“Why not?” Pepper demanded. “I thought people who’re  _ married _ can read each other’s minds.” 

Azira spluttered, “W—we’re not married?”

The kids regarded him in open-mouthed shock. “You’re kidding.”

“Crowley and I…we’re not together.” Habit left his hands reaching up to fix his non-existent bow tie. He then let them fall by his sides, twitching uncomfortably while he glanced away from four confounded stares. “At least, not in an official way. I’m a demon, he’s an angel, so you see…” 

Wensleydale adjusted his glasses. “See what?”

Azira was dumbfounded. “...Most people will be very against our relationship.” 

“That’s stupid. If two people want to be together, why can’t they?” Pepper crossed her arms with a huff. “It’s no one’s business who you or Mr Crowley wanna love. It’s not like there’s any rules or anything written in the stars. Strangers should just stick their big fat noses out of it!”

_ “Adults, _ ” the four concluded with a heavy sigh, as if burdened by some kind of profound understanding that no one else could hope to fathom. 

The rain was soaking through his wings. Despite the added weight, Azira had never felt lighter. His shoulders drew up, eyes widening, a sort of incredulous light igniting in their blue depths. 

“I know where we can find Crowley.” 

The kids brightened up at this. 

“Adam. I trust that you can fly?” Azira smiled at him, grabbing hold of Wensleydale and Pepper’s hands. The young boy unconsciously mirrored his action, one hand linking with Brian’s and the other keeping a tight hold on Dog’s leash. The excitement in their curious stares were growing giddy. 

“Well. I’ve got no wings.” Adam kicked off the ground and instantly he was afloat. Brain followed with a whoop, laughing as they did a clumsy spin in mid-air when gravity failed to righten them the right way. 

Azira flapped his wings. It propelled him a good distance into the sky while the two children clung tighter to his sides, screaming and cheering at the same time. The wind whipped through their hair and tugged at their shirts. As they rose into the clouds everyone contributed to a fair bit of yelling, and the commotion merely escalated when Dog floated a bit too far away for comfort. The poor hell-hound had turned green in the face. Adam laughed and scooped it close to his chest, cheeks flushed pink. 

“Stay close now!” Azira instructed. The children nodded; Brain caught Pepper’s hand to form a single chain, and then the five of them drifted past the exosphere into the deep vacuum of space. Azira stopped breathing—it was strange to keep at it when there’s no air to be taken in, and was about to check on the children before he realised Adam had already taken care of it with his reality-bending magic. 

“ _ Wicked _ .” Wensleydale’s glasses lifted and he had to snatch them back down. 

“Are we going back?” asked Adam. 

“Whaaat.  _ Already _ ?”

“Soon. But we’ll make a quick stop on the way first.” Azira gave his wings another mighty flap. They propelled him seamlessly across space like a fish darting effortlessly through water, pulling the children along. The planet was soon left far behind. It was a small planet, far smaller than earth, a mostly pinkish-yellow sphere owed to its endless plains of gold grass. 

They passed stars and cosmos and belts of rocks. A supernova was to their left, casting leftover streaks of bright orange and blue and green radiating out into all directions of space. Azira looked around carefully. He used to be quite a young angel compared to the others. Some had been created long before the earth was, and for these ancient beings, their first true home must have been the universe itself. 

And of course, when Crowley felt most lost and alone, he would’ve fled into his old home. Not his flower shop, Azira’s apartment or even anywhere on earth. No, he had ran far beyond; to a place so old barely anyone still remembered what living there had been like. But to Crowley, it must’ve brought a sense of comfort no other place could have. 

He helped build the universe after all. It was practically his domain. 

“Try calling out for him now,” said Azira, and the kids did exactly that. 

A cacophony of distinctively human voices rippled through space. 

“Mr Crowwwwwwleeeyyyyyyyy!” 

“Where are youuuu?”

“Here Mr Crowley, over hereeee!” 

“I’m kinda hungry, so can you come back so we can go home for a snackkk?”

“Crowley!” Azira called with his heart hammering in his chest. He had to be here. He had  _ to _ . “We know you’re here!”

Gold light abruptly streaked past them like a stray comet, leaving stardust in its wake. Azira felt everything in his heart lift at once. “That’s him!”

He gave chase. The stars around them began to blur into vertical white lines, flying by impossibly fast. Azira had never flown like this—furious and desperate as if his very life depended on it, and perhaps it really did. He couldn’t call himself perfectly whole if Crowley wasn’t there beside him. He needed Crowley like how the oceans needed the moon to turn tides, how the stars needed the dark to shine, how a demon needed an angel to know true love. 

The comet of gold dust was slowing down. Allowing them to catch up. Gradually its form began coalescing, turning more concrete, solidifying into a streamlined form of a great golden serpent. Though the outlines of its shape and silted eyes and fangs were dense, the rest of its long flowing body remained translucent, as if the serpent itself was nothing more than a constellation amidst this endless myriad of stars. As if he was not really there.

“Crowley?” 

The hesitance must’ve shown in his voice. The serpent reared to gaze steadily at them, folding its wings in to coil its sleek body into a more compact arrangement. It fell in pace by their side. Enthralled, Dog sniffed curiously at the mysterious life form, and Adam raised a hand to feel the scales of Crowley’s head. But there was nothing to be felt; his hand simply rippled through like dipping into water. 

_ Azira.  _

He heard it. Not as a voice, in words, or even in sound. He knew it merely as a truth in his heart, something concrete as if it had been engraved in stone. 

“Crowley, I—” He faltered. What did he want to say again? Strange. All the words seemed to have left him, even though he was bursting with them just seconds prior. He took in a deep breath out of reflex, letting a weight inflate his chest and press against his aching heart. “Won’t you come home with us?”

The serpent’s gaze was unreadable. Ethereal. Far removed from where the rest of them stood; on humanity’s side. A cold, crushing fear descended upon Azira then, that Crowley had gone too far to be recalled back. Had he abandoned all conscious thought? Did he give up his humanity in exchange for complete release? Was that how much he’d been hurt? 

Adam broke off from the group. Fearlessly he floated up to the serpent’s eye-level, despite the protests of his friends. He laid a bold hand upon its shimmering snout. The serpent’s eyes silted further, pupils now a mere stroke against the gold backdrop of his irises. 

“Come back to us, Mr Crowley.” Adam smiled. It was an awfully human smile; kind, good-natured, and just the tiniest bit sad. “Or you’ll make Mr Azira cry.” 

The serpent drew away sharply. For a moment it seemed as if they had angered it, and Azira made haste to shield the children from harm, but then the serpent froze from where it had reared up high above them with its fangs brandished. 

Its form flickered. Then it started to shrink. Gradually it shaped into the familiar figure of a man, complete with flowing white robes, shockingly long red hair and the pair of eyes Azira found himself falling deeper for every single day. 

Azira couldn’t hold back. He leapt forward with arms open, tackling his Archangel into a fierce hug. Crowley closed his eyes. Ducked his head, and Azira raised his chin to seek those parted lips with his. He tasted the hint of stardust on Crowley’s gentle tongue; metallic and sweet and rare. 

The reception was immediate. 

“Yeargh.”

“That’s nasty.”

“Adults are gross.” 

“Can we  _ please _ go home now? I’m starving.” 

Azira and Crowley parted with a laugh, faces flushed with warmth. He pecked Crowley on the forehead as an afterthought, then on his temple because he could, and lastly on the edge of his lips. Crowley’s blush deepened. He drew away hastily, shielding his face with the broad corner of his sleeve. 

He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Testing.” His human voice was hoarse. He coughed and cleared his throat a few more times. “Ngk, haven’t spoken for awhile. Yep. Okay, I’m back. Let’s go home?”

Brian and Pepper snickered, floating over to hang from his arms, swinging playfully. Crowley cried out with feint protest, pretending that their non-existent weight was too great for him. The three promptly erupted into giggles. 

Azira pressed Adam and Wensleydale closer to his side. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a lovesick fool. Somethings never change. 

Obviously, it did not escape the children’s notice. 

“Good for you, Mr Azira.” Adam leered up at him. 

He ruffled his hair. “Let’s go home.”

————

They made sure to drop the children safely back at their respective homes. If any of their parents were concerned that their kids had been escorted by an odd duo of not entirely human-looking beings, none of them voiced it out. Adam waved enthusiastically at them, Dog barking from his arms, before he let his parents take hold of his shoulders and steer him towards the house. Mr and Mrs Young certainly looked happy to have such an energetic son. When the doors shut behind them, Azira felt completely at ease. 

He took hold of Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley gazed at him. The cosmic light still hadn’t faded completely from his eyes. It was going to take a few days at least, for the Archangel to accustom to his human corporation again. 

With that in mind…

Azira took a firm step forward onto his tip-toes, and sealed their lips together. Crowley made a soft noise of surprise. Emboldened, Azira leaned further up, deepening the kiss, parting Crowley’s soft lips apart with his tongue and reaching to stroke his upper lip slyly. 

Crowley’s breath hitched in his throat. His hands, previously on Azira’s neck, wandered down to the small of his back, tightening their hold. He snapped his fingers. 

They were back in Azira’s apartment. The bedroom, to be more precise. The fireplace was lit and the shades were drawn. It was just the two of them, left in their very own bubble of paradise. 

“Willy old serpent,” Azira smirked, not giving the Archangel any time to respond before shoving him eagerly into the downy mattress and miracling away their clothes. 

Crowley gasped and writhed beneath the eager lips that pecked down the curve of his throat, pausing to mouth over a particularly sensitive spot at the edge of his collarbone. Hands reached up weakly to tangle in his hair. Azira leaned into the touch. He drew up himself onto his elbows. Draped over Crowley like this, there was not an inch of their bodies that failed to touch. Firelight swirled in his amber eyes. 

“Beautiful,” Azira breathed, and took Crowley’s lips into his own again. 

“Azira…” Burning hands moved to his hips. “Can you…” 

“Anything, my darling. Anything for you.” 

Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut with a groan when he eased into him. He caught a breath. Tried to hold himself still. “Alright?”

Crowley only muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and wrapped both legs around him. The act merely pressed their bodies closer, and Crowley made a noise that made a surge of heat pool in Azira’s abdomen. 

“Zira…” Hands tugged at his curls weakly. Azira reached back down to kiss him, drunk on the delicious heat of his lover’s body all wrapped quivering around him. 

They kissed and moved against the other for what seemed like eons. Everything paled in comparison—all the hurt, the longing, the years apart and the years they lived in fear of their corresponding sides—every suffering Azira had suffered just to reach this moment, it was all worth it. To hold Crowley in his arms like this, to kiss him and drag noises out of him sweeter than anything he’d ever heard, it was ecstasy Azira would even dare to call divine. 

“Nghh, Azira,  _ fuck _ .” Crowley gasped into his ear. “Turn...turn over.”

He did, holding Crowley steady as he seated fully down upon him. His face slackened, head thrown back in bliss, and Azira reached forward breathlessly to entangle his hands in those burning copper locks. They slid like silk through the gaps between his fingers. He combed through Crowley’s hair, again and again, until the Archangel bent forward to rest his head against Azira’s chest, shuddering uncontrollably. 

“Take it, darling boy.” Azira smoothed a hand along the elegant length of Crowley’s back. He planted a kiss against his temples. “It’s all for you.”

Fingers dug into his skin. Crowley bit back a groan.

————

The fire had gone out. It smelled like smoke and sweat. 

In the quiet dark, Azira’s back was pulled flat against Crowley’s chest, and he was starting to doze off in the warmth of the arms around him. The blanket was drawn over them both. Crowley was nosing through his hair, planting gentle kisses onto his scalp. They moved to his shoulders. Azira smiled into the pillow. 

It would be no surprise if he awoke tomorrow, only to see freckles all over his skin. Angel’s kisses, they were called.

“‘night, angel.” A sleepy voice purred into his ear. 

Azira snuggled closer, interlacing Crowley’s fingers with his own. He pressed their hands to his heart. “Goodnight, my love.”


	20. Epilogue

Life went on as per usual. Or rather, in the most mundane fashion, given that they were living like humans now apart from their very un-human heritage. It was the freest they’d ever lived, and together too, which was what made it count. 

Azira was by the shop entrance carrying a bucket of sunflowers. Now, he could put it next to the roses, but perhaps their yellow sheen would be brought out more when placed next to the white daisies? But surely not beside the chrysanthemums; no, clashing of colours just wouldn’t do.

“Mr Zira!” Bubbly voices caught his attention. 

He set down the flowers and straightened his back, only to be immediately surrounded by a bunch of not-so-young-children, donning flashy caps and backpacks and sweaters that probably shouldn’t be allowed in high-school. 

“Hello, you little troublemakers.” Azira mused their heads affectionately. “What brings you to London?”

“Mr and Mrs Newton brought us! Said they’d love to be invited for tea later. Oh, and Madam Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell too!” 

“Sounds like quite the party.” beamed Azira, pulling off his woolen gloves. The gold band on his ring-finger caught the shine of the afternoon sun. He shouldered the glass door open, glancing past the customers to the front counter. “Honey?”

A glum voice answered. “Don’t call me that in public! Geez, you’re so embarrassing, angel.” 

Crowley emerged from the back, hair tied into a half-ponytail and hands preoccupied with a gigantic potted bonsai. He was bringing it out for the elderly couple who had decided this afternoon they wanted hundreds of pounds to spend. Preferably on an adorable plant. 

“Take your time examining it. I’ve plenty more in the back if you’d like to see more,” said Crowley earnestly to his customers, who in turn smiled warmly back at him. He slipped off his gloves as well, adjusting his wedding band idly as he crossed the shop to lean against the doorframe at Azira’s side. Azira took hold of his waist and kissed his cheek. “Haven’t seen you kids in awhile. Grown monstrously tall, haven’t you?”

Adam stuck his tongue out at them. “I’m still growing. One day, I’ll be twice as tall as you!”

Crowley lifted his glasses, arching a brow. “Alright. I’ll be waiting. Tea at three, is it? I’ll go get upstairs ready.”

“Need a hand?” Azira offered. His husband smiled at him, eyes dancing. 

“No, you‘ll only distract me. See you later, angel.” 

Crowley pecked him on the lips before returning into the shop. 

“Ew,” Pepper remarked. The others have chosen to glance elsewhere, suddenly interested in the crowded streets. “Oh, almost forgot.”

“Hmm? What’s the matter?” 

She dug into her backpack furiously, at last drawing out a flyer which she presented proudly. “Thought you might like this. A cottage in South Down’s going up for sale, and you two look like you’re the only ones rich enough to buy it.” 

Azira took the reading glasses out of his coat pocket. It did look like a nice cottage, albeit pricey just as Pepper had said. But money was of no consequence to a pair of celestial and ex-celestial beings. This made things rather convenient, at the end of the day. 

Azira smiled and folded the flyer into his pocket for safe-keeping. “Thank you. We’ve been incidentally looking for somewhere new to move. Get away from the city for awhile, you know? Have some peace and quiet.”

“Sorry, can’t relate. You’re too old.” Brian held up a hand. 

“You’re right, I  _ am _ ancient. It's about time we retired.” Azira pushed the door open a little wider. The bell overhead tinkled. “Shall we get you upstairs first? You must be tired from travelling.” 

The kids dashed in without being told twice. 

“Last to the cookie jar loses!” Adam declared, noisily running upstairs with his friends close to his heels. 

Azira watched them go with a faint chuckle. He picked up the sunflowers again, finally deciding to set them down between the display of fire-lilies and white tulips. The weather was fine. The world was at peace. Heaven and Hell no longer bothered them. 

He pressed his hands together, lifting them to his lips for a brief moment. His lips shaped soundless words towards the blue sky. 

Then Azira returned into the shop, humming airily. 

Far above the streets, the skyscrapers, and even the clouds, She watched the gentle revolving of the quaint little world beneath her. And smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes tear* holy shit, I actually finished this. 
> 
> Did I expect to write a 50k fic at the start of this??? Nooo  
Did I expect so many people to be so kind and supportive throughout my writing process?? Nope!!
> 
> You guys are the best ;) I don’t think I could’ve made it this far without all the kind comments and kudos each of you left every chapter. I am sincerely thankful, from the very bottom of my heart. 
> 
> And this is the homage I pay to good omens and my favourite husbands in the whole world <3 Thank you Mr Neil and Mr Terry, for dragging my passion for writing back up from the deadass dirt to the surface again and reminding me that writing is, truly, the most meaningful thing I could ever hope to do. 
> 
> <3


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